


Rats in the System

by GarrulousGibberish (orphan_account)



Series: Rats in the System [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Angst, Apocalypse, Arc I, Bromance, Character Death, Complete, Conspiracy, Dark, Gen, Gore, Guns, Hate Crimes (Mentioned), Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, Race Against Time, Search for a Cure, Slash if you squint, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, ZAU, ZAUI, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:56:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/GarrulousGibberish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one knows where the virus started. No one knows how to stop it, either. But Sherlock will find a solution. He always does. Or he'd better, because otherwise he's going to be short a flatmate. Zombie AU based off of a LJ Kinkmeme prompt. This is the first of two arcs.</p><p>Cross-posted on Fanfiction.net. Version now with added art!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dawn of the Dead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlueItem](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=BlueItem).



[by bottlebee](http://bottlebee.tumblr.com/post/71198766759/some-covers-i-made-for-the-wonderful-randi-her)

The apocalypse started on a Wednesday.

No one was entirely sure who the Patient Zero was; every country seemed to have its own. The first reports of people being bitten were recorded in India and China. Consequentially, that's also where the first quarantines were established. The number of people infected was less than a thousand, at the time. Scientists and doctors and religious figureheads debated on the source of the disease, though no one theory was ever established.

The media didn't say anything about its outbreak other than a brief: _a contagion of unknown origin has been located and quarantined in Mideastern countries, including but not limited to Kazakhstan, India, Mongolia, and China. Law enforcement officials and experts are converging on the subject to bring about a cure for those infected. Until the virus can be neutralized, officials ask that any traveling to these areas be postponed until such a time that there is no longer a threat of contamination._  
  
They were fools.

The next outbreak of the virus appeared where no one had immediately thought to take into consideration. Svalbard, an island away from any direct contact with the infected countries. Ever since the outbreak, airlines and any other forms of travel were greatly reduced, also imposing far more rigid standards of security. The people became agitated, but the government assured them that it was only a precaution. There was no cause for fear. The virus would soon be contained.

But it wasn't.

The panic quickly rose for the entirety of the continent as soon as it began spreading. It extended across oceans. To the Americas, to the Islands. This disease was far worse than anything they could have imagined, anything they could have planned for. The quarantines were useless and the contagion spread faster than a conspiracy plot.

There was no preventing this.

It took little more than a month for all of Europe to be eradicated. Urban areas were like bacteria-infested breeding grounds for the carriers. The disease was carried and transferred in the exchange of bodily fluids. Saliva. Or blood. All it took was being bitten by one of the crazed to be infected. Within minutes upon being bit, the victim would experience one of two results:

1) They would be turned into one of the masses of infected subjects. Or;  
2) They would be eaten alive.

Either way they were lost.

Many of the survivors decided to end their lives before they were taken from them. Those who remained sometimes thought of them as cowards, but really, they envied them for escaping this hell on their own terms.

Of the remaining there were a few groups: those too fearful to take their own lives, those too stubborn to, those who still had hope that they could outlast this Armageddon, and then those caught somewhere in between. Too scared to be hopeful. Too scared to not be.

The Compound was the title given to the refugee base. Of the five known to the area, The Compound was one of two that had survived the onslaught. A fortified bunker, it housed a few hundred of the uninfected. Of those hundred, nearly a third was trained in the use of firearms and machinery. For protection, nearly every one of those trained carried a small arsenal at their disposal. It is for this reason that they had survived as long as they had. That and the strategic placement of The Compound allowed for a clear advantage on oncoming enemies.

The last attempt had been mere hours ago. It wasn't a large-scale attack, but it was enough to warrant multiple guards at every post. The rotation cycled at three hour intervals, ensuring the vigil of fresh eyes.

And on this particular rotation, this is where John found himself.

This was also where he almost lost himself.


	2. Insanitarium

John was not entirely sure it was a good idea to give Sherlock a gun.

It wasn't that he couldn't fire it; he most definitely could.

It wasn't that he was worried that he might injure himself or someone else; after constant practise, he was a damn good shot. Of all the people gallivanting around with firearms in this place, Sherlock was one of the least likely to have a misfire or anything of the sort.

No, the reason why John thought that Sherlock shouldn't be carrying a gun was because of what he was doing right now.

“Would you stop wasting ammunition on those damn things?” John hissed, grip unintentionally tightening around his weapon. “The noise might draw _them_ to us.”

There was a sharp crack as Sherlock's gun was discharged. The poor subject: a rat. That was the third one he'd taken aim at tonight. The detective glared at its bloody carcass as if it had personally offended him. He did not say a word.

When they had first come to The Compound with the others, Sherlock had been confronted with an ordeal he had not yet been forced to experience. Grief, on such a grand scale. Not his own, though. Never his own. Even throughout the move, he'd never once seemed different than he would in the pursuit of a criminal. Excited.

That was the main problem, actually.

He'd gotten himself into a quarrel with one of the men who guarded the gate. He'd started trying to organize them into what he considered their only salvation. This was a vast mistake on his part. The man with whom he was debating had just lost a majority of his family. He and his daughter were the only ones left, and he wanted nothing more than to keep her safe.

Sherlock had called him a coward.

The only way, in his opinion, to stop these monsters was to go after them, in order to study them. If a cure was to be made, then what he needed was a subject. A living one. It would be more effective to use their manpower towards achieving something useful, instead of hiding behind a wall. In his exact words, “you are fooling yourselves if you believe that by doing nothing we are protecting ourselves. You may as well string everyone up by the wrists and lead them to the slaughter yourself. It would be doing them a favour.” He hadn't specified to which 'them' he was referring, at the time. It didn't much matter.

Sherlock got a bruised jaw that effectively kept his mouth shut from then on. John just wished the altercation had not occurred before the front gates. Thankfully, Sherlock had since learned from the experience and had not tried to reproach any of the survivors for their tactics. That didn't mean he thought them better, just that he knew to keep his mouth shut around the others. No one wanted to listen to him here. His expertise meant nothing. And now he was ostracized form the majority—the survivors wanting nothing to do with him and his dangerous ideas. Everyone was just trying to live and keep what remained of their loved ones safe.

Sherlock was a threat to that.

How did he manage to get himself into these situations?

Luckily, John was another matter. A soldier and a doctor, his skills were greatly beneficial to The Compound. Not everyone injured was attacked. Many were victims of debris and misfires. For these he and others like him did the best they could. They had sterilized one of the rooms within The Compound to use as a sort of ward. Only the medical experts and patients were allowed through.

And beside the ward, the firearm storage.

The irony was not lost on John.

The real reason for its placement, though, was in fact for rather morbid practicality. Should The Compound somehow be overrun, those that were injured and immobile would be the first liability. There would be no time to move them, and their compromised state would mean that the virus would overcome them at a much faster rate than one who was healthy before being bit. For a normal person, there was about an hour, give or take, for the virus to set into their blood stream. After that, there would be a ten minute period of delirium that would signify the virus infecting the brain. It wouldn't be long before the madness would turn violent.

The reason the firearm storage was there was so that they could kill the wounded.

But the guard on constant patrol did their best to ensure that this would never happen. Everyone healthy and able on The Compound did their part to help protect their new home. In a way, the loss of their old way of life had broken down the barriers of the social hierarchy. Everyone was equal in their mutual grievances. There was no place for the stigmas that had defined them before. If they didn't all work together, then they were as good as dead. However, Sherlock, the exception to all, still managed to accomplish this feat. Though he did it as much to himself as they did to him. He _wanted_ to be separate from them as it allowed him more freedom. What no one, save for John, knew was that he was still looking for a cure.

The Compound had once been a university. It didn't have all that Sherlock's old lab held by means of supplies, but it served its purpose well enough. The dorm that he and John had managed to acquire was close to the labs, as well as the library. More often than not Sherlock would hide away in there, scanning medical texts for anything that could help him. John would sometimes be of some use to him when he found the time, but he himself was more likely to be found in the ward than anywhere else.

The only time they would be in the same room for more than an hour was during the night, when Sherlock listened intently to a radio and John would try to close his eyes against the hellish visions his subconscious bestowed upon him. Sometimes the static of the radio and the murmured broadcasts (from so long ago, why were they still playing?) provided enough of a distraction that he could slip under. Sometimes he would just lay awake for hours listening to them as Sherlock did.

_The government has declared Defcon Six. Military forces are establishing quarantines in the infected areas and will restore marshal law within the next seventy-two hours, in the meantime..._

Once John had asked Sherlock why he kept listening to the same repeating messages. John had thought that perhaps he was trying to decipher some sort of code or pattern within them to help him in his pursuit of a cure. Maybe by listening to the broadcasts he could locate what areas were first infected and then implement that information into a geographical map to determine what in each location could be the source. And maybe he was doing that.

But when Sherlock had replied with a solemn 'I'm waiting', John learned he was not as unflappable as he had originally thought.

Because Sherlock wasn't just listening to old messages. He was waiting for new ones.

Messages that they both knew weren't coming.

The raid of infected came as a shock to the refugees a few days later. No one was lost during it, but their panic was enough to redouble their efforts of maintaining the boundary. It was for the best, actually. They should have never let it become lax to begin with. Too long they had become complacent with their new life on The Compound. It was best not to forget that they were still very much fighting for their lives.

Another sharp crack as the gun was discharged.

“Dammit, Sherlock! Be quiet!” John hissed.

The detective just shrugged and buried his nose a little further into his scarf. “Rats,” he said, voice muffled by the fabric. “Trying to keep away the rats.”

“Yeah, well, I don't really think they're our main problem right now, so would you stop fooling around and keep watch? People are relying on us, here.”

“Correction: people rely on _you_.” said Sherlock. “They never once relied on me. Had they—“

John ground his teeth. “Yes, yes. I know. But we can't afford to go off on one of your mad schemes, right now.”

Sherlock's steely eyes set on him. “As I was about to say, before I was interrupted: Had they relied on me, there would not have been as many alive as there is now.”

As close to an admission as he was going to get. 'People would have died.' But John also knew that he thought more would have been saved had he found the cure. Which he would have done, surely, had he been able to find a subject. Had he use of his original lab. But there was simply no way. And Sherlock was still bitter. At least he was admitting that he wasn't entirely in the right. It was a start.

It was night time and all the lights were muted or extinguished, leaving them in near darkness at their post. Like insects, the zombies were attracted to those flares of light. It was a beacon to them. The lights meant food. All the windows were boarded up tight, and no one was permitted to leave their rooms unless strictly necessary, and then only if the lights were out before opening the doors.

Moonlight wasn't enough to see by.

The two men were silent for a stretch of time. John was on constant surveillance, as was ingrained upon him in his time within the service. Sherlock was moping, but had thankfully stopped making a ruckus. He could be such a petulant child sometimes it was astounding. Their shift was drawing to a close—they couldn't have more than a half hour left on the watch. John tried not to be overly relieved as the seconds ticked by. Something was putting him on edge. The rotation couldn't happen soon enough.

“Did you hear that?” asked Sherlock, suddenly. Straining his ears, John listened. Nothing. “There it was again!” he cried. He was on his feet now, gun raised and eyes bright.

Exasperatedly, “I don't hear anything.”

Sherlock shushed him and waited. A low growl breached the quiet. He _definitely_ heard that. More? How many? Was it another raid? John savagely sought any movement in the darkness beyond. Seconds. They only had seconds.

Now.

The zombie barrelled across the rocky path with madness-induced urgency. Both men opened fire upon the grotesque body but it continued on. These things were worse than bloody cockroaches!

“Aim for the head!” shouted Sherlock, as though he didn't already know that. A moment to centre himself.

Breathe. Oxygen to his racing heart.

Aim. The rifle a steady weight in his hands.

Fire. Flesh splintering apart.

The zombie dropped.

Everything around them went quiet once more. Could that possibly have been all? Just the one? John severely hoped so.

Sherlock just looked put out.

“Another viable subject wasted,” he bemoaned. With a long-suffering sigh, he turned to John. “Are you injured?”

He scoffed. “Oh please, don't worry about me. I'm fine. I'm sure you're much more interested in the body, anyhow.” John rolled his eyes when Sherlock immediately lost interest in him in lieu of doing just that. Typical. “Do you think that was the last of them?”

The other made an 'mmm' sound that meant he wasn't actually listening; too caught up in his own head. “What do you think is in the virus that keeps them from eating each other?” he instead replied. John just shrugged. The action made Sherlock scowl.

“You could try being a _little_ more useful,” he spat. Blue eyes gleamed like ice in the moonlight. He looked demonic. Every bit as insane as John knew he could be. “You—“ he began, but stopped short. Now his eyes shone with an entirely different light. “John, _move!_ ”

Too late. An intense pain rioted through him as teeth dug into the meat of his forearm. There had been more than one. How could he let this happen? There was _always_ more than one! A bright light temporarily blinded him as Sherlock's gun fired at the zombie latched into his arm. It howled in pain, opening its mouth just wide enough for John to wrench his arm free. Another shot and the creature went down. Another just for good measure. Not necessary, but it made John feel a little better.

Oh God, he'd been bit. By one of them. He was going to die. He was going to become one of—

Sherlock was just staring at him with those manic eyes.

With what he hoped were not his last words, he stated:

“You may not use my body for science.”

 

**Chapter Art:**

****

[by GabbyVee.](http://gabbyvee.deviantart.com/art/Rats-in-the-system-commission-290257037)

 

 

[by lockholmes.](http://lockholmes.tumblr.com/post/107394380845/for-garrulousgibberish-john-watson-fanart-based)


	3. Gallowwalker

The gears grinding in Sherlock’s mind were nearly as audible as the clock ticking over John’s own. How much longer did he have? An hour? Less? More? His heart, traitorously pumping the virus throughout him, was too loud in his ears. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move. Minutes ticking by. Was there even a point in waiting?

The rifle was heavy in his hand.

“Don’t,” said Sherlock suddenly. John jerked out of his reverie.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do what I know you’re thinking.” His eyes were darting side to side rapidly, like he was trying to read him, follow the virus as it infected him.

“You don’t know what was going on in my head,” John shot back. Sherlock's expression was then very dark. The image of the demon was brought to the front of his mind, once more.

“You’re so painfully transparent. Don’t waste your precious energy with useless blather. Shut up, I’m thinking.”

Indignant, “Well, pardon _me_ for not considering _your_ needs at a time like this. How incredibly self-centred of me,” John said, words saturated with sarcasm, and just a hint of hysteria. He was beginning to feel dizzy. His muscles felt sore, and the bite on his forearm throbbed in time to his heartbeat.

One second. Two. Three.

“We have to get back to the dorm,” concluded Sherlock.

“What? We can’t. You can’t risk me going through The Compound at this state.”

Sherlock gave him an irate look. “I’m not leaving you to die out here, or by the hands of the patrol shift that are on their way.”

“Then don’t. We can end it right now,” he reasoned. He couldn’t do it by himself—the bite had been to his shooting arm. He might misaim. But that didn’t mean Sherlock couldn’t.

The detective bore his teeth. “Never,” he seethed. “I’ll infect myself before that happens.” And he would.

Sociopath his _arse_.

Though the man could be cold and callous to just about everyone, John had long ago found himself to be an exception. His only friend in a world teeming with others, and Sherlock was about to lose that. John felt sorry for him.

“Then what do you plan on doing? We don’t have much longer.” Inevitable truth. He was dying. Whatever time he had left was all John would be able to give him.

“Back at the dorm. We’re going back. When the patrol gets here, make sure you cover your arm. They would have heard those gunshots, so there will be a greater number than usual. We’ll figure out what to do once we get away from them.” Faint noises from the aforementioned guards were growing closer. Sherlock gave John’s arm a fleeting glance, then added, in ill-timed jest, “Are you sure you won’t donate to the cause of science?”

* * *

 

The walk back to the dorm had gone better than John had anticipated. There had been five patrol replacements that had come. Three had stayed and two had followed them back into The Compound. Now that his nerves had calmed somewhat, John was able to not act suspicious around them. He was thankful for the lack of light that hid the dark stain growing on the arm of his jumper.

Sherlock was moving like a man possessed. His long strides were difficult to match, and more than once John would have to make a small leap to keep up. The two patrolmen noticed his urgency but made no comment. They would surely share a snide remark or two at his expense when out of earshot but would remain silent as long as Sherlock was there. No one wanted any interaction with him.

The men departed company in silence.

When Sherlock and John made it up to their lodgings, Sherlock was immediately fanatical. He grabbed a pair of gloves from the box on the desk beside the radio and slid them on. He approached John who presented his arm to him without protest. The bite was less painful that it had been earlier, but he knew that was more the adrenaline than anything else. It had taken them about twenty minutes to make it back here, so he had no more than a half hour remaining before the change. His pistol was in the right drawer.

“Sherlock—“John began.

“Shut up.” He prodded at the broken flesh intently. _That_ hurt.

“Hey, you mind? I can still feel, you know. Nerve endings aren’t that shot.” That earned him a look somewhere between irritation and concession. Sherlock moved away. More seriously, John tried again, “Sherlock, you know as well as I do what’s coming. There’s no use trying to stop it.”

The man still had his back to him and was moving about the room, gathering bottles of chemicals that he'd stored in corners and shelves. “We have to do _something_ , John. What do you think we could do if you were to change now? Here, in the dorm, in the middle of The Compound.” He set an armful of bottles on the table. “If you turn here, you’re a danger to everyone. As soon as the disease is known to have gotten by, panic will spread. This is their haven. If one can get through then none of them are safe. If I shoot you, your blood will infest the room. The entire place will be contaminated, and the same problem will occur.“ He came to stand; now facing him. “We have no choice, John; _we have to fix this_.”

Oh God, he was right. What had they done? Why had he allowed Sherlock to bring him back here? If he got out now, he might still be able to get outside before the turn. But the patrolmen had seen him, so they would know he’d been inside. He couldn’t leave this room.

“You _bastard_ ,” said John simply.

Sherlock cocked his head and grinned. “We have thirty minutes, give or take. If I can’t cure you in that time, I’ll seal the door and shoot you. And then I’ll shoot myself.” He said this as if it were the only logical conclusion.

At this point, maybe it was.

This man was absolutely raving mad. There was no cure—he wasn’t even anywhere close to making a cure.

They were both going to die tonight.

“Alright.”

He took a slow seat on his bed and leaned back against the wall while Sherlock went to work. There wasn't much of a point of removing his jumper to get a closer look at the wound, so he just propped it up on the pillows to try to alleviate some of the pain. It helped a little.

“Are you in much pain?” Sherlock asked.

John thought to shrug but decided better of it. “Not really.”

“Do you feel sick? Dizzy? Are you thinking clearly?”

“I feel fine. Thirsty, but otherwise normal. Maybe a little tired.”

The bottle in the detective's hand sloshed with some experimental concoction. He pried off the lid. It smelled foul. “Here, drink this. Should quench your thirst.”

John eyed it. “You know what; I'm really not that thirsty.”

“ _John_.” He pushed the bottle closer to his lips and John turned away.

“No, I'm good.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, for heaven's sake. _Drink the damn bottle_.”

Perhaps he was going to kill him.

The doctor took the bottle with more than a hint of reluctance. Sherlock stared at him, expectant. He tried to crack a half-grin.

“Well, cheers.” He toasted the glass and slammed it back. It tasted a million times worse than it smelled and scorched his throat unlike any liqueur. It made his insides burn. “Bloody hell,” he wheezed.

“Thirsty anymore?” John shook his head. “Good. Mission accomplished. Now, that bottle is the closest I've come to stopping the virus. If nothing else, it should buy us more time. Let me know if you feel any different.” Sherlock pulled the belt from his dressing robe that was cast over the foot of his bed and held it up to John's face.

“And what are you doing with that?”

“It's a precaution,” said Sherlock, “should the virus work faster than we anticipate, I can't have you mobile.” He wrapped John's wrists tightly, though taking care not to jostle his arm too much in the process. John wanted to say something but knew it was for the best. When Sherlock was satisfied that he couldn't move and wasn't in undue amounts of pain, he set back at his desk. “Keep an eye on the clock. I want you to tell me every five minutes how you feel. Any change at all could be of the utmost importance.”

The clock from the radio read 12:17. A half hour would be 12:47, which would be his deadline. Quite literally. While he prayed that Sherlock would defy all odds and create a cure in that time, or that whatever he was just forced to drink would give them a few precious minutes, he wasn’t going to fool himself by hoping. He leaned back against the wall and thought. He wasn’t exactly going to miss this place, but he regretted being forced to leave in this way. Without him, maybe someone who would die tomorrow would have lived. Perhaps a real cure would be discovered in a month and life would begin to rebuild in some semblance of normalcy. And selfishly, he envied all those who would go on to see these times while he was forced to end here.

Pencil scratches from Sherlock’s frantic notes brought his mind back.

The little red numbers weaved from in-between the silhouette of the shaft of the utensil. Five minutes. As soon as the number switched, Sherlock stilled and looked to him.

“Still fine,” he said. “I don’t feel any different.”

“Muscles?”

“Sore.”

“Coherency?”

“Lucid.”

“Appetite?”

John nearly laughed. “Nil.”

Sherlock nodded and got back to work. The next few successions of five minutes were much the same.

Once, Sherlock gave him another compound to try that he’d just composed. It tasted just as vile as the first, but he did his best not to complain. As their half hour became twenty, then fifteen, ten, and lastly five minutes, Sherlock's anxiousness became tangible and made John's skin itch. He didn’t stop working until the clock flipped to 12:45.

Regardless of noise, he upended his chair unto the floor.

Back turned, Sherlock said, "John."

Startled by the sudden movement and noise, John took a moment to respond. "Yes?"

"It's time."

A pause.

"I know."

Sherlock did not face him as he went about the room. He locked the door with lock, latch, and modified improvements. Then, with infinite slowness, he opened the desk drawer to remove the handgun. He regarded the weapon and turned to John.  
Might as well get this over with.

"So, I don't suppose you have anything to say to me right now, do you?" Sherlock slowly shook his head, face utterly blank. John knew better than to be disappointed, but it didn't stop him from being so, all the same. Would it kill him to act at least a _little_ upset? "Right, well, I do." He wetted his lips. "Ever since I moved into Baker Street, you had completely turned my life upside down. You made my life a," 'Living hell' seemed too harsh a term in comparison to their life now, "circus. How I maintained my sanity staying in a flat with a man who had already lost his is beyond me, but I wouldn't change it—any of it—for anything. And I owe you so much." He maintained eye contact with Sherlock, though the words felt foreign in his mouth. He didn't want to say them. No matter how much he meant them. "So there," he concluded, lamely.

Sherlock's face contorted into something tortured, and John vehemently wished that the blankness would come back.

With a bowed head, Sherlock sat on the bed, gangly limbs arranging themselves to awkwardly accommodate his position beside John. The gun hung loosely in his right hand, and they both stared at it.

"I believe I told you once that I was not a hero," he said.

"Yes, I do recall you saying something like that."

Quietly, "I wish I were."

John's throat constricted. "So do I," he replied, honestly.

 

**Chapter Art:**

****

[by GabbyVee](http://gabbyvee.deviantart.com/art/Rats-in-the-system-commission-290257037)

[by sapphii.](http://sapphii.tumblr.com/post/68321629376/you-know-i-tell-you-this-was-so-much-fun-to-draw)

[by lascocks.](http://lascocks.tumblr.com/post/59370386719/sherlick-stickin-by-hiz-mahn-zombie-lock)


	4. The Boneyard

As the seconds ticked by, they both stared out across the room at the wall, listening to one another breathe in the space between. Everything felt so surreal and unbelievable, and if they looked at one another, saw the pain, the moment would become tangible. Real. They weren't ready.

The purgatory continued.

The little red numbers changed.

"I won't shoot you until you start to change," said Sherlock. He tapped the gun lightly against his knee. "How are you feeling?"

"No different." 12:47. Any moment now. Why hadn't it started already? "Maybe that potion of yours gave me a little more time."

The detective didn't reply at first, but then replied, "Perhaps." The numbers kept changing, and the anticipation was near stifling, slowly killing him by frying his nerves. Was it supposed to be instantaneous or slow? Shouldn't he be feeling something by now? "Nothing?"

"No."

Sherlock rose from his place and looked him dead in the eye. John grit his teeth and tried not to pull away when his eyelids were forced wide by roving fingers. "Bloodshot, but still clear," he said to himself, not John. "How is your sight?"

John jerked his head away. "I see fine."

Sherlock scowled. " _Why?_ The virus should be well into your bloodstream by now. It should be in your brain, affecting your synapses and chemistry. Mental descent should be setting in, but you still retain full use of your faculties. _Why?"_

"Sorry to disappoint," John deadpanned. Blue eyes flashed at him warningly. "Maybe that drink you gave me actually worked. You invented a cure and didn't know it?"

"Don't be ridiculous. If it was a cure, I would have known. It was not."

Some mixture of exasperation, hesitance, and hope was beginning to work its way through the doctor. "You're not omnipotent," he stated. "Maybe the chemicals needed more time, or they reacted differently in my body than you expected."

"It was _not_ a cure, John. Do you think I would give you just anything? I tested that compound a hundred times. My blood was still contaminated when introduced to the contagion." He was up and pacing, now.

That took a second to process. "You've been experimenting on yourself? Sherlock—" He was waved off with a flippant gesture from his hand, and that was when John noticed the cuts decorating his fingers and palm. "When—"

" _Quiet_. Let me think. There has to be an explanation for this." He turned on heel to look at him. "Are you sure you were bitten?" John rolled his eyes.

"Judging from the teeth marks in my forearm, I would say yes. You're the one that shot it, Sherlock. You know I did." The pacing continued. The radio read 12:58. Eleven minutes past the estimated time. They weren't in the clear, yet, but it was a chance. A possibility at maybe. "The virus may have evolved. It may have isolated itself to its host."

"Viruses are viscous and manipulative. It would work to become more potent, not the opposite. That's counterproductive and doesn't make sense."

John sighed and leaned back against the wall. "I don't know. Maybe my immune system is managing to hold it off. It could still kick in any moment." That earned him a critical look.

"I need a blood sample." Sherlock dug through the desk drawer and pulled out a syringe. John didn't want to think about the implications of its presence there.

"I won't become your science experiment," warned John, eying him.

"You don't have a choice in the matter." He removed the cap to the needle. "There's always a reason, and the reason is in your blood," he explained.

John didn't even attempt to argue with him as he was stuck with the needle. "Fine, but don't get any on your hands. The virus could easily get in one of those cuts. I won't have you acting like any more of a loon than you already are. Bloody embarrassing." Sherlock's lips quipped.

"I'm not untying you." Because there was still time for the change to happen, so it wasn't safe to release him just yet.

"Yes, fine. I'll just stay here, tied up like a good little lab rat while you're off."

Sherlock slipped the syringe in the plastic sleeve and removed the gloves he still wore. "I shall return as soon as I have results." He slid on his scarf, pulled on his pea coat, and did up the buttons, just as he always did before. It made John smile.

"Bring back some milk on your way."

He couldn't, but he wouldn't when he could, anyhow, so it didn't matter. It made John feel better to say it.

The door clicked shut and John shut his eyes.

Okay.

Everything was going to be okay.

* * *

 

The door bursting open woke John from a fitful sleep.

"This is perfect! Absolutely perfect! John, do you realize just how important your existence has become?"

So he'd only just now become important? What happened to him being worth dying for only hours before?

"Not really, no."

Sherlock was muttering as he went about the room, tugging off his coat and scarf. "Your blood," he was saying, "was infected. The virus flows through your veins."

The blood drained from John's face. "That's not a good thing, Sherlock."

Sherlock beamed. "But it is. John, don't you understand? You're _immune_."

Oh.

That was not what he was expecting.

He tried to wrap his mind around this, but his brain couldn't seem to understand Sherlock's words. "You mean that it won't affect me; that I can't contract it. Ever."

"Do try to keep up," Sherlock said impatiently. His voice took on a dreamy quality. "This is it. The chance we were waiting for. Now we can move forward."

All of this seemed too good to be true. Things like this simply didn't happen in this life. Miracles were just false hopes. Except with Sherlock. Just one more miracle. "Can you really? Make a cure, from my blood?"

"Yes. Maybe. If I can isolate the factor that neutralized the virus and then somehow recreate it." He laughed, a giddy-maniacal way. As if he didn't appear enough as the mad scientist without it.

John shook his head and shifted to ease his sore back. He would very much like to move now. "Does this mean that you can let me up?" His wrists were aching terribly, and now that the more immediate threat of the virus was no longer a factor, there was still the very real possibility of infection to the open wound. Sherlock had forgotten him completely, as it soon become apparent, as he was quickly upon him, murmuring hasty apologies. John hobbled over to the chair (which was still upturned, so he had to set it right) while Sherlock replaced his gloves so that he could get into a position that the detective could get at his arm. The jumper caught on the broken flesh and made him wince.

"Should have tended to this earlier," Sherlock groused. "Who knows what kind of bacteria was in that thing's mouth."

"Well, we had a bit more on our minds at the time than that, didn't we?"

His response was ignored as if he hadn't spoken at all, Sherlock intently pouring alcohol onto a rag and dabbing the edges of the wound, clearing away dried blood. "Sherlock, I think we should talk about earlier."

The detective's eyes met his briefly before turning back. "You should be rejoicing, not lamenting," he chastised.

"You were going to kill yourself," John said, seriously.

"You were going to die," he said back, as equally solemn.

John gave him a very disapproving look. "Sherlock, you can't just do that. You may very well be one of the only ones out there still looking for a cure. If you die, then so does the cure. You can't do that to them."

Sherlock glowered at John's arm instead of meeting his eyes. " _They_ will not mourn my loss. They do not want _my_ cure." He leaned back on his haunches. "I just consume their precious resources; it does not matter that I am here."

"They will think differently when you save them."

"I cannot be their messiah."

"You don't have to be," he opted, "but you won't be anyone's anything if you're not here."

Sherlock leaned his forehead against the back of his gloved hand, fingertips red with John's blood and glistening with the alcohol.

"You can't die on me, John. You can't...scare me like that, ever again."

John squared his jaw. "I will promise you this, if you promise to never take such foolish action again."

A shake of the head. "I cannot."

"I am aware," he conceded. "But then I will not make you that promise." Sherlock made an unhappy noise at the back of this throat and finished dressing the wound in silence. "So what are we going to do now?" John asked when the bite was properly bandaged.

"Resume our normal routine. I am going to need time to isolate the factor of your immunity. We can't allow anyone to know you are a carrier. If they know your blood is infected they will surely take every precaution in order to stop its possible spread." 'Precaution' meaning a bullet to the brain. "Is there any way to remove yourself from the ward? It's dangerous for you to be about the ill. Just one slice of the finger could mean a pandemic."

"It's a risk I will have to take. I cannot opt out of the ward. Not only would it cause suspicion, but I couldn't stand knowing I wasn't there to help when they need me."

"Of course you could opt out," Sherlock chided. "All you would need to do is feign mental duress. It is not so hard to believe that the stress caused by being forced to endure those suffering day in and out would cause mental instability under prolonged conditions. They would be able to find someone else to take your roll."

"Sherlock, I was once a _soldier_ , though I know you often forget this. I've been through war before and came out fine. This is no different." Sherlock looked at him beseechingly for a moment, hoping that John would crack, but John was having none of it. The imploring look immediately dropped away and was replaced by something snide and derisive.

"John, patron saint," Sherlock mocked.

"Oh, shut it. I will be careful." He looked to the jumper still strewn across the desk, where Sherlock left it. The blood on the sleeve was still fresh enough to infect. Sherlock could be astoundingly hypocritical.

Of the two of them, he wasn't worried about his own actions near as much as Sherlock's.

He'd either end up killing them all or himself.

* * *

Sherlock was listening to the radio as John lay in bed, unable to sleep. This still remained one of the only times they were able to keep for themselves, away from all the chaos and noise. The radio was down so low that it barely filled the space left by the silence.

Without seeing his face, John knew Sherlock's eyes were closed, fingers steeped in a meditative state as he stared blankly to the boarded up window. Above the bed was a periodic table with harsh black scribbles of X's and checks that John was now scrutinizing, as he'd done countless nights before.

"Your cure," he began. "Can it reverse the virus in a living being?"

He could almost pinpoint exactly the time and the way Sherlock's eyes slid open despite the lack of sight.

"No."

"Right, then." But that wasn't quite all. "There's something you're not telling me."

"I cannot bring back the dead."

John snorted. "I think the virus does that well enough on its own."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous." Sherlock stood, disturbed the papers on his desk, and turned the radio off. "I know the common superstition is that those infected are the 'walking dead.'"

John sat up. "That phrase has been used many times. You've never protested it before," he pointed out.

"It is an apt, if misinterpreted epithet," he said. "Those infected that still walk live. They never died."

"I know that's not true, Sherlock. We've seen one of them reanimate before our eyes. Remember, Mrs. Hudson—"

" _Adrenaline_ , John," Sherlock snapped. Their previous landlady was still a topic in which they had been unable to broach, despite John's best efforts. "The virus doesn't kill them. It's toxic and it makes the immune system attack itself. The disruption of chemicals in the brain does not just make them mad; it changes the behaviour of the entire body. The body begins to shut down, but then is 'reanimated' by the release of adrenaline, unfiltered, throughout. This is what keeps them moving, despite the circumstances. By all means, they should be dead. The 'walking dead' is acceptable terminology."

Wait a moment.

"Then there is hope? If they are not dead, then—" Sherlock groaned.

"Are you _listening?_ Those infected have already had their bodies subjected to more than any living person could take, but the excess adrenaline coursing through them allows them to defy the necessities of physical limitation. If it were not for the virus, their bodies would not be able to function. It's all that's keeping them alive. To take that away would mean to kill them."

The bile in John's stomach was making a valiant effort of crawling up his oesophagus. They were all alive. Every single of them. It was so much easier to distance himself from it all when he thought them already gone. It was Afghanistan all over again, as it never was before.

"It would be absurd to suppose that you could kill something that was already dead," Sherlock continued, oblivious to John's newfound inner turmoil. He had turned away and was fiddling with the dials of the radio before turning the power on once more. As the broadcast flitted into the room, John lay back upon the bed, mind alight with new, unwelcome thoughts.

 _If you are forced into a confrontation with one of the infected, shoot to kill. Aim for the head to separate the brain from the body; this is the only way to stop them,_ said the speaker. It was a message he'd heard a million times before, but now had too much meaning. Sherlock rested his head in his hands and waited, patiently, for the report to end. For a new one to begin.

"Absurd, yes."

No more so than believing they were dead to begin with.

No less devastating.

He rubbed his calloused hand over his tired eyes.

To think that tomorrow he'd have to carry on as if none of this mattered, because it didn't.

 

**Chapter Art:**

 

[by GabbyVee.](http://gabbyvee.deviantart.com/art/Rats-in-the-system-commission-290257037)

[by bottlebee.](http://bottlebee.tumblr.com/post/76415182075/a-board-for-garrulousgibberishs-fantastic-zombie)


	5. Meat Market

The morning of the beginning he’d been awoken, as he had many times before, by the commotion caused by Sherlock rummaging about the room. He was in hot pursuit of a wayward folder that contained the latest in his experimental works. He was fretting because he had _known_ that it was with his files of schizophrenia and hypothermia when he was in the library, and now was not entirely sure if he’d replaced the wrong file in the records.

“Can you not just check and see if the file’s there when you head down? I highly doubt anyone is going to take it. You and Anderson are the only ones that are in there on most occasions.”

They had discovered that Anderson had been a part of The Compound on their third day, when Sherlock first set foot in the library. This had been when Sherlock was still slowly turning everyone against him, and so the resulting row with the man had inevitably led to every onlooker turning to Anderson's side, which only enraged Sherlock further. Anderson took great pains in disrupting Sherlock’s work by nosing through his notes, disrupting his musings, and taking the books Sherlock set aside for himself. John wasn’t entirely sure why he did it, other than making Sherlock squirm was entertaining, but he did it often enough that John heard about him on a constant basis. Though Sherlock would often rage due to his actions, he seemed like a relatively harmless nuisance.

The detective had enough sense to not try anything against him publicly, but John had the inkling of suspicion that he was adding small doses of something to the man's water. He'd taken ill, as of late.

Sherlock whipped around to glower at him. “ _Anderson_ has now taken to the hobby of moving all the books in the library that I have used and putting them in different locations. It could take hours to find the correct file again, thanks to that vile man,” he seethed in derision.

John rose from bed, head turned down to hide the smile on his face. Their feud held little bearing over him, but it constantly amused him. “Have you ever tried just asking him? Perhaps instead of constantly going at each other's throats,” he held up a finger to silence the protest on Sherlock's lips, “you could try to do something more productive.”

“As if anything that man would contribute could possibly be conducive to my work. He’d do nothing but slow me down with his idiocy,” Sherlock bit out. He was pacing before the foot of John’s bed, shoulders hunched like an unsettled bird. “I have to stop this. He shall not ruin all of the work I have sought to achieve over his petty grudge.” He flew to the door with his coat trailing behind him dramatically.

“Oi! Don’t do anything that will cause a scene. You have enough problems, as is. You don’t need to add any more to the list,” John admonished, foregoing lacing up his boot. Sherlock blinked at him innocently, as if to say ‘who, me?’ John was not impressed.

Dropping the pretence, Sherlock growled, “I will do whatever is necessary to achieve my ends. What the others think means nothing. If Anderson gets in my way again, I will remove him.”

“…just don’t kill him.”

“No promises.” And he left.

John sighed and finished doing up the laces. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

The ward had been blissfully uneventful for a majority of the morning. Walter (a surly old man who refused to eat anything that wasn’t fried) had collapsed due to dehydration while trying to tear down a wall that connected two classrooms that they had been using as storage. When asked about it, he refused to answer.

“Now, Walter, you know you can’t just do things like that. Something much worse could have happened. The wall could have collapsed on you. You’ve got to be more careful,” Lydia, a once-studying nurse that worked alongside John, said. She had a kind face etched with premature stress lines and thin lips that she held between her teeth when she was thinking. She smiled at the elderly man in a disarming way that John could never seem to achieve. Walter turned away, bashful.

“It’s none of yer business,” he mumbled. “Jus’ tryin’ to work on something to keep me busy. There ain’t no harm in that, is there?”

“It is when you hurt yourself,” Lydia reasoned, patting his shoulder. “I don’t want to see anything happen to you. Try to be careful? I won’t ask what you were doing, but I just want you to try to be safe.” The old man grumbled a response and sat up from the desk they had been using as a makeshift bed. John watched him stagger out of the room from where he was on the opposite end, helping one of the more sickly boys attempt to drink water. His mother was on patrol at the border and was unable to cater to him as she usually would.

Lydia sighed and cleared away all her tools, then walked over to John. “Hey, there,” she said, conversationally. “Haven’t seen you around here often.” It wasn’t an accusation, just an observation. He’d been spending more and more time in the labs with Sherlock. Sherlock may be genius, but he didn’t have John’s medical background.

“Yeah, just been busy. Trying to keep things in order.” Meaning keeping Sherlock in line and not with a bullet between the eyes or a broken neck.

She smiled knowingly. “He being particularly difficult?” she asked, taking the other end of the sheet that was offered to her and helping set it straight.

“To put it lightly.” He shrugged. “Keeps me sane, though. Running around after him keeps me focused on the now rather than in my head. I can’t complain too much.”

“That’s how Michael was. He always seemed to have some mad scheme or another that he was chasing after, in the end. Literally. But he always took me along for the ride. It’s why I married him.” She had a faraway look to her eyes. “He was my anchor through some hard times. I don’t know what I would have done had I never met him.” The light returned to her. “I’m sure you know what I mean.”

He did, but that didn’t need to be said. “You never told me you were married,” he dodged.

“Just a few months before the outbreak, actually. I lost the ring in the move to here, though. It was with him.” Something bitter crept into her voice. “It was _lost_ with him.”

Oh. He’d been turned.

“I’m sorry.”

Lydia shook out of her state, trying to play it off with a smile. “I-I don’t mean to bring this up. Everyone’s lost someone. I should just be thankful that I made it out alive.” But at what cost? John wanted to ask, but held his tongue. “But I’m glad it’s not like that for everyone.”

With nothing he felt would be appropriate to add, John nodded. He shuffled around awkwardly, checking on the few people in the ward that were conscious enough to try to drink some water or stomach some food. It was getting closer to noon, and the sun streamed directly in through the windows. Lydia opened the main doors and kicked the stands to keep them that way. It was only a little relief, but very much appreciated. And perhaps it was the heat that made him lax, but he hadn’t even thought about it when he removed his jacket.

Mr. McGregor was waking up, so John filled a glass from one of the stock and brought it over. Lydia came up behind him with rag damp with alcohol. Mr. McGregor had been one of the accidental shots caused by the panic of moving. His son had brought him to The Compound before venturing beyond the walls in a futile and suicidal effort of fighting back. Ultimately, he never came back. Whether he was killed, turned, or still out there somewhere didn’t matter. John would never forgive him for abandoning his father.

Because whenever Mr. McGregor woke up he always asked for him, and John hated to have to tell him.

“Henry? Where’s Henry?” the man rasped, clutching to John’s forearm with a trembling hand. “My boy, where is he?”

John did his best to get him to lie back. “He’s away, Charles,” he told, gentling him. “How’re you feeling? Do you think you could try to drink some water for me?”

Mr. McGregor’s beseeching eyes sought everywhere at once, looking for a son that wasn’t there.

Was never there.

John contemplated telling the man that Henry was dead, to spare him the constant cycle of hope and disappointment, but he couldn’t stand to think that the man couldn’t handle the news. Or worse: that he could, and then Henry came back. He would never be able to forgive himself.

Lydia helped him ease Mr. McGregor back with calming endearments. It wouldn’t do for their stitching to tear. It was crude and not nearly as strong as it would have been had they the proper supplies; it wouldn’t hold up if he moved around too much. They managed to get him to drink some water and tell them how he was doing (no better, no worse. Still felt like someone tried to pull his intestines out through a hole in his side) and get him still. When he settled and drifted off again, John took a moment to rub at his face.

“Absurd,” he muttered into his skin.

“It gets to you, doesn’t it?” Lydia asked, folding her hands in her lap. “After a while. I know it gets me. If I didn’t have my brother here, I don’t think I would be able to stand it.” A small smile. “Keeps me grounded. Though I guess you have Sherlock.”

There was no contempt in her voice as he had become accustomed to when Sherlock was ever brought up into conversation. One of the things he liked about her was the fact that she didn’t think like the rest of them. She wore her heart on her sleeve and believed everyone deserved to have someone else. Not even Sherlock deserved to be alone.

“I—um, I know it’s none of my business, but I’m glad you can have someone like him at a time like this.” A flush was colouring her cheeks and John was becoming very confused. When he realized what she was implying, he almost groaned. _Again_. Why did people always assume Sherlock and him were together like that? Even now, when society as they knew it had gone to pot. “I guess life or death situations bring out the passion in people.”

“Look, it’s not—wait, what?” That one phrase had a million insinuations. What did she know?

“I’ve never been into things like that, myself, but understand how pain might make things seem more real, and—“ she was babbling and John’s heart was speeding up.

“What are you _talking about?”_ he insisted.

She ducked her head shyly. “The love bite on your arm. It’s from him, isn’t it? It doesn’t bother me, I-I just was thinking. Sorry, it’s none of my business to be bringing up.”

He looked at his arm, and sure enough, the almost-healed bite was there, glaringly obvious. It was hardly more than a little break in the skin and a crescent shaped redness, but it was undeniable what it was. A bite. He shot up to retrieve his coat; heat be damned.

“I should get going. I’ll, um, be around if you need me,” he rushed. Too close. What if she had known? A little more experience and maybe she would have been able to tell that the bite was scarring, that the wound had healed from something far more substantial that what she suggested. He’d gotten careless. The poor girl was sputtering apologies that he waved away as he replaced his jacket. With no further salutations than a brisk word, John fled.

He needed air.

* * *

"Anderson," Sherlock demanded.

"Freak," Anderson returned in welcome.

"I know you've taken it. Where is my file?" He rounded the desk Anderson sat at to tower over him.

"You don't intimidate me," Anderson snarled. "And I didn't take your bloody file. It's right under your nose."

Sherlock looked across the table to the stack of books atop it. He recognized the titles; they were all ones he had chosen for himself in his research. And there at the top were the ones he'd taken of schizophrenia and hypothermia. Between them, his file. That's not where he'd left it.

"You've been through my work." He snatched the file from between the books. "Have you contaminated anything?"

Anderson rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "I blacked out all your results in black sharpie," he drawled. He seemed affronted when Sherlock frantically opened the file to see the damage for himself. "As if I could possibly do anything to harm your bloody notes. What would be in it for me?"

"Such logic has never stopped you before. You've always taken to spiteful actions when it suited you."

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock, it was _one_ time. And I had already had my arse handed to me from Lestrade, thank you. Just let it go.”

“Just because you were reprimanded for your action does not mean you're above repeating it,” Sherlock retorted. His words were punctuated by the quick closure of the file in his hands.

Anderson scrunched his nose at him; an action that revealed the bottom edge of his teeth. “I saw your results, you know.”

“Oh? And your hollow skull was able to make anything of it?” He was mocking, but truly asking at the same time.

Anderson wasn't a fool. He'd been a part of the forensics team back when Scotland Yard was still an active institution. Not just anyone can get in there, despite what Sherlock often protested. In order to hold his position, he had to have some modicum of intelligence that Sherlock had never been witness to, but apparently was now. Beneath the quelled feeling of anxiety and animosity, Sherlock felt something that might have been approval.

Sensing the shift in the power dynamics of the conversation, Anderson stood. “It did. Tell me, who else knows you're trying to make a cure? I doubt anyone, besides maybe your pet; otherwise you'd have more people helping you.” He smiled a little wider; a little crueller. “Or maybe not. You're not exactly working with harmless materials.”

Sherlock sat down.

Anderson continued on. “You've got infected blood. _Fresh_ infected blood, from what I could tell.” He grinned. “And I want to know how you got it.”

* * *

After John had left the ward for the day, he’d tried his best to make his way through to the library where he thought Sherlock to be. He had perhaps made it to the centre of campus before he was stopped by Simon: a gangly teen with a spotty complexion. John liked the kid well enough. He was kind, if somewhat dim due to his lack of age and education. He was still caught up in his head on days, even though the situation called for him to be grounded. The boy was in distress about his sister who had run off earlier in the day in an attempt to play hide and seek with her older brother. He’d been unable to find the child and had recruited the help of others in The Compound to help aid him, but his time was running short to be able to find her before his shift as a guard. John immediately knew where this was headed.

“You need me to go on guard for you.”

Simon beseeched him. “Oh would you, please? I will do the same for you, I promise.” That was a lie. John only ever went on guard duty with Sherlock as he was the only one who could stand him for that amount of time. Simon couldn’t take his shift, even he’d let him. “I just need to find her. I’ll come relieve you as soon as I do. Will you help me?”

John sighed. A concession in itself. Simon was grinning even before he’d told him yes. They exchanged a rifle between them and then parted ways: John to the southern border and Simon toward the mess hall. Sherlock would just have to wait for him to return. Hopefully everything had gone well enough with Anderson. He didn’t want to have to come back to Sherlock with a battered, bleeding body and defiant expression. Again.

It was Fredrik that greeted him at the wall, pleasantly surprised and shaking his hand. “And what brings the good doctor up on guard today? I thought it was to be the boy.”

“He had a bit of a problem he needed to tend to. I’m covering his shift for now. He’ll come take over as soon as he’s done,” John told him, shrugging into his coat a little more. “Everything been clear?”

Fredrik guffawed lightly into his hand before speaking. “No action on this front. Been pretty quiet ever since your little episode with them a while back. Saw one about a mile off with a bad limp. Looks as though the foot’s been clear cut off. But it’s stayed wandering around down there. It’s circling, but I haven’t seen anything else.”

 _It_ was at the foot of the incline. Slight frame and twiggy limbs. It looked hardly more than a teenager. John's stomach knotted on itself. A teenager. The words _still alive_ were bouncing around in his skull like a mantra.

He had to ignore it.

“And it hasn't made any attempt to come up? Even recognized us?”

“No. I'd shoot it down if I didn't think I would miss and ultimately end up having it come after us. That and I don't want the noise. May only be one now, but too much ruckus could bring the others.”

John nodded and adjusted his hold on the rifle. Maybe if it got closer he would try to get an aim on it, but as of now it wasn't worth the risk. He'd just have to keep an eye on it.

Through the break in the sparse amount of trees, it lumbered around in the dirt, awkwardly hobbling on one foot and the stub of the other. Its head was held to the sky, though it lolled on its shoulders like a pendulum. The fact that it was close enough for John to see this disturbed him. Would it be safer for him to take aim now? He could make it, surely.

But then the zombie came to attention. Its head snapped back and it reached its arms out to claw at the air, not in the direction of The Compound, but to the right of it. It obviously saw something neither of them did. And I wanted it.

Fredrick nudged John's shoulder. “What does it see?”

All that John could make out was the slope of the grassy hill. Not even a breeze moved the blades of grass. “I don't know. But if it gets any closer, that thing is going to turn towards us.”

The man at his side braced himself against his weapon. “Yeah, well, let's just hope it doesn't.”

John's eyes were still glued in the direction the zombie had taken, trying to see what would lure it so. “It worries me more that it seems to have really caught a whiff of something. There's no wind, so it'd have to be strong. And the only thing that can catch these guys’ attention like that is fresh meat. I think it smells blood.”

And Lord help him, he had never wished to be wrong more in his life.

Fredrick took note of the sight just as John had. “Wait, there. I see it now. A person?”

Yes. Yes it was. Two to be more precise. Both of which John recognized.

One Jim Moriarty, bearing the weight of an injured Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Both of which had taken no notice of the zombie closing in from behind them.

John slowly raised the rifle to take aim.


	6. Against the Dark

The angle was all off. The two men had chosen quite possible the most indirect route to The Compound wall. It was interlaced with a cluster of trees that were too tightly woven to get a clear shot.

“John, can you get at it? It's close, mate. They can't outrun that thing at this rate.”

_Shut up, Fredrik. Not helping._

Moriarty turned his head and looked John, who had the gun aimed for him, in the eye. Really, he was too far away to tell, but John knew he saw a smile split his face. The bastard.

Fredrik was waving at them to usher them towards the entrance they guarded, away from the barrier of trees.

The two men began to move toward them, and the sudden change in direction made the zombie stumble over its own wounded leg. It still didn't give them enough time to make any noticeable distance. The only difference was that now they were leading it straight for the entrance. Lestrade looked up to John, probably wondering as to Moriarty's change in course. And in was in the moment that his eyes locked with John's that the solider fired.

The crack of the rifle made the two men skid to a halt and Fredrik give a startled cough. No, they needed to keep running! He hadn't hit it directly in the brain, but in the jaw. It gurgled and clawed at its own face while still trying to move forward. Lestrade yelled and Moriarty wove his arm at it, as if trying to bat it away. The idiot was going to get his hand bit if he kept doing that, and John was almost tempted to let him. But Lestrade. He took aim again.

This time the shot was true.

The zombie fell.

Both men were ushered back into the sanctity of The Compound walls by the guard while John watched the slope behind them. When both men were securely within the borders, he lowered the weapon and followed. Moriarty was setting Lestrade down on his uninjured leg. When the former inspector had settled, he was immediately seeking John.

“John bloody Watson,” Lestrade exalted. “Never thought I’d see the likes of you again.”  
John clasped his hand firmly, face grim. ”I can say the same.” He looked Moriarty in the eye, and the man looked wary and frightened. An act. “I had never hoped.”

The consulting criminal gave him a confused sort of expression, but that glint in his eye told John that, no, he was very aware of the situation. He also knew that he’d just saved Lestrade’s life. It was the only thing saving his own.

Lestrade was oblivious.

“John, this is Richard Brooke. Met him about a week in, right before the government started going screwy. Been on the run since. Good thing, too, otherwise I prob’ly wouldn’t be here.” He knocked his knee tentatively. The front of his leg was wet with blood, and the tear in the fabric was long and rough. There was too much blood for John to be able to tell if it was a bite.

“How did it happen?” he asked, using his sleeve to pull lightly at the shredded cloth to try to get a better look. He needn’t worry about the virus, but he still had to take the precaution for pretence’s sake.

  
“Didn’t see it coming,” said Lestrade, wincing slightly when the cloth caught on skin. “We were at the department when a desk collapsed on me. We were surrounded. If Richard wasn’t there, I would have been done for.”

“He saved your life, huh? How about that.” John scowled. Moriarty looked away, as if shying from John’s veiled anger. Would things get terribly out of hand if he were to just shoot the man now? Why was he here? As if their situation couldn’t get any worse.

The wound on Greg’s leg was deep, but it had already clotted heavily and was trying to heal.  
“How long ago did this happen?”

“About two, three days ago,” Moriarty supplied helpfully. John shot him a look and he fell silent once more. Now Lestrade was eying John as if he wondered as to his sanity.

Ignoring the previous line of conversation, Lestrade asked, "John, is it only you here? Did anyone else make it out?"

"Yeah, Sherlock's here. We made it here together, but we were the only ones. I'm sorry." John still hadn't looked to the DI but was looking at Moriarty. "But Anderson's here."

Greg gave a stuttered laugh. "Irony has a cruel sense of humour. I suppose Sherlock is about running the place by now."

Fredrik coughed roughly into his hand and turned away. Despite him being amiable enough to John alone, he couldn't stand Sherlock. "Not quite." If anyone was going to be running the place, it would have been Mycroft, but like so many others, he'd disappeared as soon as everything went beyond control. Sherlock, as John knew, considered him lost as soon as they had been forced to flee Baker Street.

Lestrade was giving him a look. "Where is he now?"

"Probably in the library. Look, we can go hunt him down once we get that leg settled."

The DI consented, and John helped him to his feet. "You can't know how great it is to see you. After the first two months, I thought everyone was gone. I went there, you know. To Baker Street." Greg paused. "Sorry about your landlady. She was sweet."

John didn't answer immediately. "I wouldn't bring that up when we find Sherlock."

They were silent for a while after that.

Moriarty was trailing behind them. John could feel the eyes that followed him, but he reminded himself that _he_ was the one with the gun. There were no bomb and no snipers waiting in the wings. Moriarty sure had been a threat once, but now he was only a scrawny man in a worn jumper. And a frightening intelligence.

“So what's happened to Sherlock?” Lestrade questioned lowly.

"What do you mean?"

"I can tell something’s wrong here. And that guy's reaction, you didn't say anything. You always say something. Or at least take notice. I can only assume that either you don't care about it, or you're used to it."

"You know how he is. Nothing happened to Sherlock other than he tried to be his normal, controlling self. He had a plan, they didn’t agree with it. He was shot down.” Lestrade blanched, and John quickly remedied, “Not literally. Well, he got knocked in the jaw for it, but nothing more serious than that. He’s had worse.”

He wished he was referring to times back when life was normal, but he wasn’t. He’d had worse done to him within The Compound when he treaded on one too many toes. He’d refused to give John names.

“And that turned everyone against him? Just like that? Or was that guy it?”

John pursed his lips and adjusted Greg’s weight on his shoulder. “No, that’s pretty common. And as you said, I’m used to it.” He sighed. “There’s no room for intelligence like that in a state of fear.”

“That’s bloody tragic,” Lestrade lamented. John was slightly taken aback.

“I thought this is what you all wanted: to bring him down to our level.”

Judging by the disgusted look on Lestrade’s face, that was a definite no. “And what, make him one of us? Why on earth would I want to do that for? I’d never want to be the one to make him stoop so low.” His lips curled bitterly and he spat, “It’s just another thing we’ve lost.”

He really couldn’t have said it better himself.

John saw Moriarty duck his head and his shoulders shake. He wondered if he perhaps was mocking Lestrade’s words, and he had to vehemently remind himself that he was holding an injured man and that, no, he couldn’t manoeuvre enough to get a shot in without possibly dropping him. Oh, Moriarty was clever, indeed. Lestrade was his one and only safeguard.

They drew towards the centre of The Compound, and that was when people began to slowly gravitate towards them. They kept their distance, however, wary of the injury to Lestrade’s leg.

John whispered into the DI’s ear, “Be careful. Don’t let anyone near that wound unless they’re a part of the ward, okay. Some are all too paranoid to take chances. Until you’re cleared, you’re not safe.”

“Will they try to kill me?”

“Some, yes.”

“Lovely.” Lestrade smiled grimly and nodded his head to a man standing before (shielding) a woman: his wife. The man eyed Lestrade, then John, before turning his back and ushering the woman away. It was never easy to integrate a new arrival, but it didn’t stop the doctor from hoping. At this moment, he wanted nothing more than to be accommodating the DI. He needed the man to stay. Glancing behind himself, John’s steps faltered.

Moriarty wasn’t there.

He had slipped away in the crowd. He could be anywhere in The Compound. He could be going after Sherlock. John’s pulse hammered. And if he _did_ do something to Sherlock, no one would save him.  
  
“John, what’s wrong?”

Blinking away the scenarios playing before his eyes, he muttered, “Nothing.”

There was nothing he could do right now. Once Greg was in the ward he could go after Sherlock. What damage could Moriarty honestly do? This was John’s territory. Here there were no puzzles laced with sickly sweet smiles and Semtex. Sherlock was stronger, and equally as clever. He could protect himself. If only he would. He didn’t need John to protect him from Moriarty.

Only himself.

* * *

“And if I refuse? What then? Will you tell them? They'll believe you, of course. You wouldn't even need the file.”

Anderson's face was still, but his eyes flicked away from Sherlock's face. “They would ruin your research. Destroy the effort. And they'd make you tell them where you got it. Keep getting it.”

“Yes, they would.”

Anderson closed his eyes and sat with a sigh. “I would, you know. Not just to spite you, either. You're bringing this stuff into our sanctuary. All it takes is a single cut; a nicked finger. And all of this is ruined. You understand, don't you?”

Especially because he'd said the same thing to John, yes.

Sherlock remained silent and watched. He also understood that the only reason he was here was due to one person, and that it was that very person that posed such a threat. No one could find out about John. No matter if they killed him to force it out of him. But if they never had the chance to know, then the problem was averted.

If Anderson didn't make the correct decision here, Sherlock would have to kill him.

John would disapprove, but what must be done would, in order to keep him. In any case, John had once killed a man for him. He would just be repaying the favour. And friendship was all about repaying favours, wasn't it?

“Do you know what you're doing?” Anderson asked.

Replying to the inquiry in part to Anderson as much as his own internal monologue, Sherlock said, “In part.” Snapping his neck would be quiet and bloodless. Best option. Second option: suffocation. Too much struggle, desired result.

As he was to everything else, Anderson was oblivious to this. He kept talking. “How close are you?”

“Closer than I was a month ago.”

Anderson glared. “Don't provoke me, you git. You know as well as I do that you're already close to the edge with these people. They're just looking for a reason to get rid of you. And this,” he poked at the file, ”would definitely do it.”

“Then do it. Tell them. And the cure will be lost with me,” Sherlock bit. _Make the right decision, Anderson._

Running a hand through his oily hair, Anderson pressed, “What about your keeper? What does he think about you doing this?”

“John is an indispensable aid to me, as I'm sure you already assumed. Or am I overestimating you?” Taking a jibe in order to try to side track him.

“And he doesn't think you're taking an unwarranted risk?” Tactic ignored.

Sherlock's mouth stretched at the corners. “If he did, he would have stopped me.”

“There's no stopping you when your mind's set on something.” A pause. “Alright. Then here's my deal.” Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “I won't turn you in. I won't even ask where you're getting your supply. But I want in.”

“What?” No. That was not the correct answer at all.

“You heard me.”

“Clearly not, or I would have responded as such.”

“That's my terms. Either you can take it or leave it,” Anderson said, crossing his arms over his chest. His jumper crinkled noisily which took away from the effect he was surely trying to impose.

“If I do not, will you hand it over?”

“I will.”

Sherlock was becoming distressed. His jaw was locked tight, he knew, and his eyes were wide. It was a look John often told him was something akin to freezing. Whatever that meant. “Or I could kill you now. I could hide you.”

The other paled. “Bloody hell, what happened to you? Have you really changed that much since then? Would you really cross that line?”

Simply, “The status quo has changed.”

“Not that much. I won't interfere. I can _help_ you. You're not the only one that wants this. I have something invested in making this cure just as much as you.”

“I seriously doubt that.” In no case would Anderson working with him result in John's continued anonymity. And that was the most important.

A low whistle suddenly caught their joint attention.

Someone was stepping into the doors newly opened at the library entrance, judging by the shadows cast against the bookshelves from the light beyond. Slow, methodical. Sneakers were quiet against the carpeted flooring. Who would be coming in the library? No one came into the building because Sherlock took refuge here. If they were here, it meant they must have been looking for him. Possibly Anderson, but Anderson was hardly of use to anyone and his shift on rotation didn't come for another two days.

Neither man moved or spoke as the footsteps grew closer.

“Sherlock Holmes. In the flesh.”

Sherlock whirled around with a fervour that took the forensics specialist aback. That voice. That sing-song tone that he'd only hoped to (never) hear again. Moriarty.

“And who are you?” Anderson demanded. The fool really couldn't keep his trap shut, could he?

“Richard Brooke,” drawled Moriarty, not once looking away from Sherlock to address Anderson. His pocketed hands were hidden by the loose folds of his pull-over. Was he concealing a weapon? No, he wouldn't. Not yet. Too close. He couldn't have been here long enough to attempt something like that this soon. In any case, it wasn't how he operated.

“What are you doing here?” 'Brooke' grinned pleasantly, eyes slowly taking the detective in. The way he did it wasn't lewd, but predatory—longing. Anderson made a shuddering movement that Sherlock noted from the corner of his eye. Yes, Moriarty had that effect. The wolf before the lamb.

“Did you miss me?” he hummed.

A slow smile split Sherlock's face. “Emphatically.”

If at all possible, Moriarty's lazy smile melted into something even more luxuriously sinister. However, when he finally turned to Anderson, there was nothing but contempt in his eyes.

“I think it's time for you to leave. Sherlock and I have some catching up to do.”

“You're joking,” he scoffed. “I'm not going anywhere. Sherlock and I have something we're already discussing, so if you'd kindly _butt out_.”

Of all the insipid things—

“Anderson. Enough. It's time for you to leave,” Sherlock told him, icily.

Anderson gave him a gobsmacked expression that made him look like a fish.

“You're _joking_. No, look here. I am not going to be waved off just because your _boyfriend's_ come back and—“

“ _Anderson_.”

“Don't forget, but I'm the one holding all the cards in your little game, and I can still choose to—“ Don't say it. Not in front of this man.

Moriarty could not know about his effort. Under no circumstances. It didn't matter where they stood now, or what bad air lie between them; Jim Moriarty was fire. If it suited him, he would destroy everything. Sherlock would not allow this kind of leverage be placed in the madman's hands. It was only a matter of time, but he would stave it off for as long as possible.

But he needed the cure if John was ever going to be safe.

“—not a discussion, man! Our conversation is over. Leave,” Sherlock intervened. But quietly, more to himself than to Anderson, he added, “The decision is quite clear. You have to help.”

And that stunned the forensics specialist into an uncharacteristic silence. He looked to Sherlock, who straightened his back and looked him in the eye, then to Moriarty, whose smile had not fallen but eyes narrowed. Another time. Without another word, he left.

“How juvenile, Sherlock, thinking that you can possibly hide anything from me. But that's for another time.” He teetered on the balls of his feet. “It's so good to see you again. How have you been? We should really catch up.”

“How did you get in here?”

“The funniest thing, actually. Your little pet let me in, if you would believe. You should have seen the look on his face. Careful, Sherlock. Rabid dogs will be put down.”

Sherlock's eye twitched.

“If it was John at the gate,” which he shouldn't have been, as it wasn't his rotation, “then he would have shot you.”

Moriarty tutted. “Ah, ah. But not when you're holding something they want. A bargaining token, if you will. To grant me passage and protection.”

“What are you talking about?”

But he didn't get a direct answer. Moriarty looked over Sherlock's shoulder, to the space beyond. “How far will people go to retain a bit of something of the past? To clutch to that one tie of a world gone. Sentiment.” He sneered and turned his attention back to Sherlock. His face was much too close, but Sherlock didn't move away. No outward appearance of an affect would he give. “It makes people weak. And it makes them stupid.”

Emotional ties held one back. Yes, he could agree to this. But they could also pull one forward.

“What about you, Moriarty?” Sherlock began, slowly and with care and the other made an exaggerated 'me?” expression. “Looking for another game, already? Not more than an hour in The Compound and you've already sought me out. Sentiment?”

“Don't flatter yourself, darling. It's really not an attractive trait at all. And believe me when I say that I only wished to see just how much you've changed since the beginning. Only the stupidest of animals would fail to assimilate to a new environment. And only the most brilliant would be able to, despite this, maintain as they were.” He shook his head, sadly. “I knew you were ordinary, Sherlock. Boring. Tell me, how long did it take for them to break you?”

Sherlock's lip curled cruelly.

“And you, 'Richard Brooke'? Do not pretend that you have not done what is necessary. You are not above this.”

Moriarty hummed. “I had so hoped to use that name in a different time. It would have been quite spectacular, had you seen it. A fitting end.” His grin slid off his face upon changing topic. “But no. I don't call myself this out of necessity. How dull that would be. I'm still playing the game. And I had hoped that my pieces weren't broken, but it would appear I hoped for too much. But I am not ungracious, Sherlock. I brought you a present. My token, it's in the shop right now, but I'm sure you wouldn't mind the damaged goods.”

“That is why John did not ensure you stayed in sight.”

Moriarty blew a raspberry at him. “As if he really could. If I didn't want his notice, I wouldn't have it. It's as simple as that. After all, not even Big Brother could keep tabs on me the entire time.” Sherlock flinched and Moriarty grinned. “But enough about that. Don't you want to see your present? I want you to. I really did miss our game, Sherlock. And though you may be broken, I think that having a little... _incentive_ will liven things up again. Go on.”

Sherlock moved slowly, and Moriarty's watery eyes followed him. It would be best to get as far away from Jim as he could. He needed to regroup. He needed John. He needed more time. The doors opened and allowed him passage into the cold night air. The sun had already gone down and the lights extinguished, so he would have to make his way to the ward in the dark. It would give him time to think. Head bowed and eyes trained on the shadows, he walked on.

He would just have to adapt.


	7. 28 Days Later

Sherlock walked through The Compound without upset. The moon had risen full that night, for which the guard on this night's rotation would be very grateful, but also meant that there were very few that wandered around without the disguise of darkness. When there was more light, there was more likely a chance of attack. The easier it was to see, the easier it was to draw attention by movement. That is why the full moon's illumination was very dangerous. But it worked for Sherlock.

He had no problems getting into the ward.

“Sherlock, you're here,” John said. Sherlock wasn't supposed to be here. This was off limits to well refugees, but John sounded relieved, and was knelt over another that Sherlock couldn't see. His token. “Did you see him?”

“I had a chat with Moriarty, yes. It was quite elucidating. He said you let him in.” It wasn't intended as accusatory, but by John's set jaw it was construed as such. “He also said he brought a gift.”

“Yeah, well, your gift just passed out. It might be a bit before you get to talk to him.” Sherlock moved closer to see.

Ah, so it had been Lestrade.

Good.

Perhaps for the best.

There were only two choices that Moriarty would be able to use that would allow him access into the Compound with John on guard. There had been a chance that it was Mycroft, but it made more sense for it to be Lestrade. Moriarty and Lestrade had never met. Lestrade would be easier to manipulate. In any case, John liked Lestrade better. Had Moriarty brought them Mycroft, John would have still shot Moriarty. And what would two Holmes serve to him? No, it had to be Lestrade. Foolish to think otherwise. Besides, Mycroft would have been too heavy for him to carry had his leg been in that state.

“You look disappointed,” John noticed.

“Don't be ridiculous. I am pleased Lestrade managed to make it through. This is good.”

“And Moriarty—“

“Has only changed the pace. He's mad; he may think that he has the control here, but he will soon learn otherwise. But I will not allow him any advantage. The sooner the cure is created, the less danger you will be in.” He hadn't really meant to say the last part.

“What?”

Topic change.

“Speaking of, there is something I need to discuss with you. It concerns Anderson.”

“Did you get your file back?”

“Yes.”

Exasperated, “So what is it now?”

“There had been a development. And a deal has been made. Anderson wants to help create the cure. Either I let him or he reveals my research; that I am using contaminated blood.”

John paled. “Does he know—“

“Not yet. But if he works with me, he will. There is no doubt. It would be unacceptable that you were unable to assist me as you were because of this fear.” John scrubbed a hand over his face (apparently without realizing that he'd just smeared a bit of Lestrade's blood on his cheek. Sherlock would tell him of this later).

“Are you sure? Can't you just blow him off or something?”

“Not worth the risk.”

The doctor looked uncertain. “What are you asking me?”

“If you would allow Anderson to know or if you rather I eliminate the problem.”

“Eliminate the—no, Sherlock, no. Just—no.” He took a deep breath, probably counting in his head. “This has really been one  _hell_ of a day, considering.” He waved his hand. “Just do what you have to do. _Don't_ hurt him.”

“I can assure you it would be painless.”

“ _Sherlock_.”

“Yes, fine.”

Adapt. Sherlock was adapting. John was not. Moral systems of the past should be modified to compensate for new environments. Only those that were able to assimilate would be able to live. But not John. He was strong, and the strong could live as they will.

That was how Anderson began working with Sherlock towards the cure.

* * *

Day one of the new arrangement consisted of a lot of questions and frustrations.

“Wait, what? You're kidding me, right? _Him?_ No, there's no way _he's_ the one that's infected.” Anderson was pointing at John as if he were one condemned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went about their room, gathering the notes that he'd thrown in a fit of temper the night before. “It shouldn't surprise you. No one else would willingly work with me, especially if I were to be using them for experiments. It's obvious, really.”

“I just didn't think—I mean, I didn't think that it was someone—“

“Yes, I know it's insane. But it's a resource,” John placated. “We can use it. And if we're careful, then no one will be endangered. We wouldn't be near this close to a cure without it.”

Anderson balked, “You're barmy. Gone completely 'round the bend. You work in the ward of all places!”

“Yes, I am aware.”

Sherlock sniffed loudly.  
  
“You're endangering _everyone_ ,” Anderson elaborated.

Was it really such a hard concept to accept? Better guess that the forensics specialist was just being moronic.

“I'm _saving_ people,” John argued, standing firm. Anderson wavered. “Now, will you help us? The sooner we can find the cure, the sooner I don't have to watch my bloody canteen like it's a hand grenade.”

“Wait, why—“

“Saliva,” Sherlock answered, now off the floor with an armful of papers. John sent him a withered look that he pretended not to see. They'd gone over this argument before, but John refused to bring up what he considered 'Sherlock's Psychotic Break.'* It really hadn't been as much of a dilemma as he was making it out to be.

“Right, I'll keep that in mind.” A tense moment in which Anderson shook his head and paced, John took a seat at the foot of the bed, and Sherlock shifted to cover the exit, just in case. He made sure his hands were out of his pockets. “Yes, well, I suppose if you two haven't set the place ablaze yet, me helping couldn't make anything worse. I'll do it.”

“Brilliant,” Sherlock droned, not sounding thrilled in the least. He stepped away from the door. “What blood type are you?”

Anderson's face scrunched. “O positive, why?”

Sherlock paused. “Fantastic. Yes, you actually could be of some use.”

“I thought that was the _point_.”

“No, the point was to not have to deal with a body and to assuage John's guilt. Now you could actually have a purpose. Give me your arm.” He had procured a blade and was holding his hand out expectantly. John took notice to the litany of tiny cuts but didn't say anything.

“So you can do what? Get away from me with that thing! I'm not going to let you blood-let me.”

“Stop being difficult. I just need a bit.”

“Sherlock, come on. At least give the man a chance to acclimate a bit before you jump him.”

Sherlock snarled. “Yes, _by all means_ , take your time. You have the rest of your life, after all.” He pushed past them both. “Come find me when _you_ are ready.”

John exhaled through pursed lips. He had a point, but it couldn't be helped. They needed to have Anderson on their side. Bombarding him wouldn't help matters.

“Not even the bleeding zombie apocalypse could make him grow up,” Anderson reflected with a hint of amused derision.

John counted to ten in his head and was just thankful that he was no longer the only lab rat in their cage.

* * *

On day five Lestrade was improved enough to try to move around. He insisted on being able to get out of the ward as soon as possible to try to see The Compound. Surprisingly, it wasn't John that convinced him otherwise, but Sherlock.

“There is absolutely nothing interesting to see out there. Dull people going about a dull existence doing nothing other than what they deem as useful. It's essentially London as it was set back a few years.”

“Very funny. I know you have had time to get desensitized to it all, but I have been alone with Brooke for almost two months. I want to see people. Interact with someone else. I've been deprived of it.”

“Trust me, you do not wish to get to know these people. Consider yourself lucky that you have not had to interact with them on a daily basis.”

“They can’t be that horrible, and it’s not just that. I want to know how everything runs around here. I need to get to know the new environment.”

“It can wait. As I said, there is nothing of value waiting to greet you out there. And more than likely you will be under severe scrutiny for a period of time before they adjust to you. It would be best to wait until you are in a better condition, should you need it.”

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience. This has something to do with that guy at the gate, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “It would be in your best interest to be inactive for a time. Once they hold an impression on you, they do not change.”

“Is that what happened?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. “Will you stay put?”

“Yeah, alright. But I don't promise for long.”

* * *

On day seven, John was in the ward when Fredrik came in with a bleeding nose. He was coughing erratically and with watering eyes, trying to breathe through the blood and having a miserable time at it.

“Hell, mate, what happened to you?”

When he wasn't given a response, John ushered him inside.

That was when Lestrade came in the door, cradling some scraped knuckles. He took one look at John and Fredrik and turned tail the other direction. It didn't take Sherlock to put two and two together.

But Sherlock, bent over his notes and radio, was infinitely amused when John told him about it later that night.

He even promised to give Lestrade a gift in return.

* * *

On day nine, John found Sherlock carting Lestrade in a wheelbarrow.

“Should I even ask?”

“He wanted to see the library.”

“And the wheelbarrow? Why not just support him?”

“I can't feel my left hand.”

_“Why?”_

“Testing a hypothesis. Adverse reaction. Anderson is on rotation.”

“Right, and you?”

Sheepishly, Lestrade answered, “Just wanted some fresh air.”

John nodded, because this was supposed to make perfect sense. “I'll leave you to it, then.”

* * *

Day ten revealed that, despite the previous suspicious inactivity on Moriarty's part, the man was in no way idle. He'd managed to throw a wrench into The Compound's workings. And it had been in the form of rotations.

Anderson was furious. “No way in hell. I was on rotation yesterday. It is not my time to go. Find someone else.”

“Everyone else is busy or already on rotation. We need you to help Brooke learn the ropes on his first shift,” said Daniel. Daniel was an older, surly man that essentially handled the rotation's scheduling. He'd been good—very good—at this until now. He didn't hold a bias against anyone, and understood simple principles such as how Sherlock could only go on rotation with John, and that no one should have to be on rotation more than three days between their last shift. No one argued with him, as there had never been a reason to, before. He ran a good system.

“Find someone else. This is ridiculous. There has to be someone else that can go.”

“Sherlock,” Daniel deadpanned. It was reasoning enough. “Look, it will only be for a short shift. As soon as someone else can exchange for you, I will have them do so.”

Brooke stepped up behind Daniel, all wide eyes and nervous smiles.

“Yes, thank you,” Brooke said, shaking Anderson's hand. Anderson, not knowing what else to do, nodded and returned the grin. “I know you probably have better things to be doing.”

“Um, well, no. I-I don't suppose it couldn't wait.”

Brooke's eyes glittered. “Fantastic. I look forward to learning a lot from you, then.”

* * *

Day eleven lead to a certain...fluffy discovery.

“Is that a kitten? How did a _kitten_ manage to get into The Compound?” John asked.

The little creature was buried in the folds of Sherlock's coat, mewling softly. Sherlock was excited.

“I found it at the wall. I was attempting to find Anderson, but this works just as well.”

A kitten as an equal commodity as a lab partner. “I really don't see how—“

“Think, John! How many animals have you seen around The Compound, or in the general area since the outbreak?”

“Well, there's plenty of vermin running around. I guess I haven't really seen much else.”

Sherlock was grinning and stroking the kitten's grey fur with nervous fingers. John withheld the urge to make a Doctor Evil joke.

“I think an answer may lie with the animals, John. Or the problem, therefore. It makes sense.”

No, it really didn't.

“Right. What are you going to do, then?”

“Test the theory,” Sherlock said. And then he, kitten (which would come to be named Conan) and all were off toward the labs, fervently muttering something about the Black Plague.

John hoped beyond all hope that the kitten wouldn't end up in a dissection tray.

* * *

On day fourteen, Sherlock had manipulated Anderson into letting him draw a pint of blood. The man was flat on his back, eyes closed, and blood draining out through a tube in his arm.

John really couldn't be to blame for first assuming that Sherlock had actually killed him.

Which is why he nearly jumped out of his skin when Anderson lurched upright.

“Jesus, John! Some warning would be nice! I didn't hear you come in.” His pallor was a mix of the blood loss and panic, but it made him look positively ghastly.

“So you caved, did you?” John admonished, though was not surprised.

“It was either let him do it now or risk that he would just sneak up on me and knock me out to get it. Damned persistent.”

John looked at the jar the tube fed into. That was still quite a bit of blood.

“And you're letting him only take this much, right? You know as well as I do that if you give too much that you can _die_.”

Anderson rolled his eyes. “Thanks a lot for that, doc, but I'm not going to let him kill me for my blood.”

Like he would have a choice in the matter if Sherlock decided differently.

“What does he need your blood for, anyways?”

“Hell if I know. I get the feeling I'm here more for donations than contributions.” He ran a shaking hand through his matted, sweaty hair, and lay back down on the table.

To be fair, John was just surprised that he figured out that much so quickly. It personally took him much longer.

* * *

It was quite early on the sixteenth morning and John had decided to head to the ward much sooner than usual. The sun was only just the thinnest of outlines against the trees; hardly enough light to even see by, and made it hard to distinguish outlines and shadows as he passed them.

Which is why he nearly missed the figure of Jim Moriarty slipping through the hallways, towards the weapon storage.

Almost.

“Hey! Get back here!” John yelled, not caring who he might awaken at the early hour. Moriarty took off down the hall, but was forced to come to a halt when he reached the end, surrounded by locked doors. He turned and faced John, lazy smile with just a hint of teeth.

“Looks like you got me, soldier.” He raised his hands in mock surrender.

“What do you think you're doing in here, Moriarty?”

“Shush, the ones who believe you might be listening.” The criminal chuckled. “It's really quite a powerless feeling, isn't it? Having everyone believe a lie, when you know the truth. Which makes me wonder, Johnny-boy, why not just tell them? Seems you've made quite a name for yourself, here. And in these times, trust is power, isn't it?” His eyes trailed over John's face, and it caused the hairs on his neck to rise. “Do you enjoy your power? You know, the funny thing about power, though, is the way it _turns_ people. It's an advantage, and who wouldn't use that for their benefit? I know I would.” His face grew grave, and that almost put John on edge more than the manic smile. “Imagine all the _secrets_ you can hide without them batting an eye.”

John snarled.

“Get the hell out of here.”

A chuckle. “Meow, kitty. Retract the claws. I'm not the threat, here.”

The sound of Moriarty's shoes padding confidently away was drowned in the roaring of his blood in his ears and the weight of the world slipping through his fingers.

* * *

On the nineteenth day, no progress was made. When Sherlock entered into the labs they had commandeered, every beaker and slide was broken into a gleaming symphony on the floor; every paper was shredded into a fine snow-like layer about the desks and chairs.

“Bloody hell, what happened?” asked John. Sherlock stood stock still, eyes darting all the damaged supplies. Nearly everything in the room had been destroyed in what appeared to be a stampede. Both of them knew better. “Moriarty had something to do with this, didn't he?”

The muscles in Sherlock's jaw clenched, and John gave credence to the very real possibility that this might lead to something very violent.

Sherlock spoke briskly, “It doesn't matter. There was nothing here. All of my research, my progress is either with myself, at the dorm, or with Anderson. There are other science classrooms. This was merely an intimidation.” His fist clenched and unclenched at his side. “It changes _nothing_ ,” he finished, and stalked out.

It was a display of power, is what it was. Moriarty's display of power.

Message received.

* * *

Day twenty-one was the day Sherlock had his epiphany.

Sherlock was lying on his bed, glaring at the ceiling while Conan purred, nestled into a soft ball on his stomach.

It was damned comedic how strange they looked together. It was difficult to take the severe glare Sherlock bore seriously when stroking the cuddly mass atop him.

John was snarking to himself, as quietly as he could, until Sherlock interrupted him.  
  
“John,” he whispered, almost sounding in awe. John's mirth subsided when he met Sherlock's eyes. “ _That's it_.” He leaped to his feet (arms full of startled kitten) and gave a triumphant laugh. “Yes! That was it! That would be sure to work!”

John eyed the terrified animal as Sherlock gallivanted about the room, lost in whatever mania had just taken him. “What would be sure to work?”

Sherlock grinned at him broadly, but did not answer. “I just have to test it. It was so _simple_ , John, how could we have missed it?”

It was only 'we' when something was missed, wasn't it?

“Test on _who_ , Sherlock? Don't do something stupid and go testing on yourself.”

Sherlock gave him a look of tried patience. “My options are very limited, John. Who am I to test it on? Anderson? His system is too weak from the blood loss to get an acceptable gauge of the formula's results.” He really had no one but himself to blame for that. “You are useless,” _Hey_ , now! “as you are already immune. Besides myself, who could I use? Conan?” He paused, briefly, to set the kitten out of his arms (and Conan immediately skittered away, out of the madman's reach). “This is it, John.”

The doctor's heart was beating just a bit faster.

“Are you sure?”

His lips quirked. “Only one way to find out.”

* * *

Between days twenty-three and twenty-five, John saw nothing of both Sherlock and Anderson.

Somehow, between that time, one of his water canteens went missing.

* * *

Day twenty-six:

“Let me in! God dammit, let me get past!”

John knocked the wailing teen to the ground and attempted to pin him there, but lost his hold when he struggled. The boy set him off balance by kicking him in the shoulder.

He was trying to get into the ward—into the weapons storage.

“What do you think you're doing?!” John caught his ankles, tripping the boy up and sending him to his knees. This time, the doctor managed to hold him there.

The boy sobbed, “Let me _go!_ You don't understand; I need to get _in there_.”

“You know as well as everyone you can't! _Why?_ Why do you need in there?” The boy was shivering like he'd touched a live wire. It made John anxious. What was this kid's name? He'd been so quiet before now. Why today?

“The guns. Everyone needs the guns. It's _inside_ , now. Oh please, you've got to let me through!”

“What's inside?”

“The virus!”

John's blood ran cold.

“What do you—“

“ _Please!_ Just let me up. No one's safe, anymore. The virus has gotten inside.” Whatever he might have said after that was lost in the wail the boy emitted as he collapsed to the dirt. John released him, but the child did not attempt to escape again; he just cried into the dirt, arms wrapped tightly around his shivering body.

The commotion brought on several onlookers, despite the lateness of the hour.

“Is everything alright here?” a man asked. “What was the kid saying about the virus?”

“Just,” John said, shakily, “a little scared, is all. The heat messing with his head and not enough water.” He licked his lips nervously. “Would you mind, uh, taking him home? He's not making much sense now, but I'm sure he'll feel better once he's gotten some rest.”

The man nodded, bending to scoop the boy into his arms. Small hands wound round his thick neck, little body still trembling. A smile to John and the two left.

John almost felt ill at how easily they all trusted him. He felt even more sick at the idea that the child must have heard about the virus _somewhere_. And he had a pretty good idea where.

When John returned to the dorm, Conan was lying dead on the floor, an empty saucer by the door. He could have been sleeping.

John wished he were sleeping.

* * *

And then there was day twenty-eight.

“Bloody idiot,” John seethed, pulling Sherlock's coat. Sherlock sat in silence as he was seated on the desk top, Lestrade by his side, and John bustling about him. “You have never heard of the word 'caution' in your life, it would seem. As in _use gloves_ when working with hazardous materials and carry a bloody knife with you when you're going to be alone. Self-preservation. It would do you some good to learn it.”

The glass shards in Sherlock's palm hurt quite a bit, but he didn't say anything.

Lestrade was looking at the mess on the floor warily. “What were you even working on, Sherlock?” He toed a larger piece of glass from the beaker and a small amount of what was left of his solution slid to the floor. A flare of outrage seared hot in Sherlock, but he looked back to his palm, from which John was scrutinizing. He ignored Lestrade's question.

“I need gloves. And antiseptic,” John sighed, wiping the back of his hand over his forehead. He took a swig of his water canteen and set it on the table so that he could take back Sherlock's hand. Sherlock nodded minutely, still feeling hollow in his core. His mind was reeling too fast for him to keep up with. Why did Lestrade have to be here? He needed to talk to John. He needed to be alone with him so that they could figure out where to go from here. “Will you at least tell me who it was that tried to do it this time?” John pleaded.

Richard Brooke, in the Science Lab, with one Joseph Stanton.

Cluedo was still a ridiculous game.

“No,” he said, instead. John scowled at him. There was no point getting riled up over it now. It was a waste of time. They had so much more they needed to focus on.

“Lestrade, can you watch him for me? I'm going to make a run to the ward. Just make sure he doesn't do anything stupid while I'm out?” Lestrade gave him the affirmative, and John clapped his shoulder lightly. “And if anyone comes back, take this.” John handed Lestrade his pistol. The DI took it without question.

Sherlock felt a sort of panic come over him. He reached out and caught John's coat sleeve with his uninjured hand. “John, don't. I did it, John. I know I did. I just have to try again.”

John's face paled in what Sherlock imagined was shock. Yes, now he understood the gravity of the situation. Time was a commodity they did not possess.

“I won't be long. Hold on.” And John left. Sherlock hung his head and glared at the hand in his lap. Bits of the broken glass still protruded obscenely from torn skin. It was really quite painful. And debilitating. He didn't have _time_ for this. He should just tear it out and be done with it. But then there was the blood to deal with. He could always use his scarf to staunch it, however. But then he'd have to deal with the bulk around his hand. He needed proper bandaging. And he liked that scarf.

Lestrade was talking to him.

“—I know you don't much care for how everyone else is treating you, but you might want to take into consideration the length some of them might be willing to go to. This is new to me, and I haven't been 'round long enough to see some of the things John's said they've done—“ Boring. Their attempts at bullying him into behaving would only work to an extent. And only because it suited him better for them to leave him well enough alone. Retaliation would only draw more attention to himself and that was the last thing he wanted. John and Lestrade's sense of retribution held no appeal to him. The altercations would never go so far as to antagonize John enough to leave. He was too valuable, which made Sherlock valuable. They couldn't risk hurting him to the extent the doctor and the DI feared. _Boring_.

“I have no more to discuss on the matter, Lestrade. If you have any useful input, then share it, but as you don't I would recommend keeping your blathering to yourself.” Perhaps that was a bit cruel, but he was not in the mood to try to play nice. He needed John to get back. Lestrade bit back whatever retort he planned on making, face red with the effort. He had good intentions; they were just ineffectual to Sherlock's purpose.

“How you've managed this long...” Lestrade muttered to himself, but Sherlock wasn't paying attention to him. Perhaps he should have been, as it was only after the sound of the metallic cap of John's canteen being unscrewed that he was brought out of his head. Lestrade brushed his hand over his mouth and set the canteen back down. That one. That was the one that had gone missing.

“What did you do?” Sherlock whispered.

“It's just water. We have enough of it from the river. I'm sure John won't mind.”

“You drank from his. You don't understand. You drank from John's canteen. How long have you had it?”

Oh John, why had you chosen _now_ to be so careless?

Lestrade put his hands up as a sign of peace. “Sorry. I won't touch the water again, I swear. For God's sake, as if we don't have enough to worry about without the threat of a little cold virus. I didn't even know it was John's.”

It was really much worse than that.

If only he had his _formula_.

“You have very much more to worry about than a cold. Lestrade, I need you to sit down. Where did you get the canteen? How are you feeling?”

Sherlock was standing now and ushering Lestrade to sit back, though the DI was being quite uncooperative. “Brooke,” he said. “I feel fine. Why? You're acting strange.” Sherlock didn't say anything, but took the pistol from Lestrade's belt. A bead of sweat welled up on Lestrade's temple. “It's warm in here,” he huffed. A sign of the virus? Possibly. But there was the chance that John didn't drink from that canteen, or that it had been washed. The virus can last in deceased organic matter for five days and in inorganic matter for three. There was the chance that it had already died off before Lestrade had taken a drink from it.

Lestrade's susceptibility to the heat could be due, still, to his weakened physical state from his leg injury. But then why not before? Had he shown any signs before drinking? Sherlock wished he had paid more attention.

“Talk to me. I need you to keep talking to me.”

“Goddammit, Sherlock, what's gotten into you?”

Pupils were dilated despite the light in the room, breathing laboured, increased blood pressure, inflammation of the eye sockets (possibly due to lack of sleep, possibly due to the spreading of the infection).

Sherlock pried the DI's eyes open. They were clouding. “How's your eyesight?”

“Fyion,” the man slurred.  
  
“What?”

“I said it was fine!”

“Speech degradation.” Lestrade completely failed at knocking Sherlock's hand away from his face, instead swatting empty air over the detective's shoulder. “Impaired coordination. Accelerated decomposition of higher brain function.”

The man blinked rapidly; an attempt to clear the haze. His brow furrowed when it did not, Sherlock assumed. The brain was most likely slowing down, now, making it harder to process the situation. “Sherlock? Sherlock, what's happening?” He closed his eyes, and shook his head. “Fuck, the heat must be getting to me. Tired.”

Sherlock chose not to say anything to that, and instead held Lestrade's shoulders to balance him. What to do? At this stage, there wouldn't be enough time to get him outside The Compound. He needed to be sequestered for the inevitable change. They couldn't have more than minutes left.

Damn it all.

Why did this have to happen _now?_ He'd been so close! If Lestrade had just held off for just a little longer, then—inconsequential. It was all inconsequential at this point. Adapt to the situation. And in this case, the grim termination of it.

Lestrade wheezed: throat muscles contracting involuntarily. Lestrade was lost. There was no more time.

“Sh'lk. Vrse mn ma bran, snit?”

“Yes,” Sherlock deadpanned. Whatever he just said didn't matter. John would probably care, though. Last words. Sentiment. Lestrade was still trying to talk and Sherlock was mostly positive that if one's final words were gibberish then they did not count. So Sherlock spoke to him, instead. There was no rule saying that one's last words must be spoken by the person, yes? Words spoken _to_ them could also count. Perhaps not, but it was all he was going to get.

He stopped talking when Lestrade's head lolled forward.

Funny how Sherlock's own safety never crossed his mind until the former DI started making lunges at him.

Sherlock fumbled for the pistol in his belt. He hissed in pain when the recently forgotten glass shards in his palm dragged across the butt of the weapon. The pain was making his arm quake. Time lost. Other hand. The noises coming from Lestrade's throat were making the hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck stand on end. He wasn't proficient in shooting left-handed. Really, he wasn't proficient in shooting at all, despite what might be argued. He had John for that. God, where was John?

Time lost.

Lestrade kept scrambling for any purchase of Sherlock, and more than once managing to snag the detective's coat. Unlike when the virus was still setting in, the movements of the man were now quick and wild—that would be the adrenaline. Inconvenient. A round from the pistol was fired and grazed the now-zombie's shoulder. It did nothing to slow him down. And then a misjudged grab threw Sherlock off balance for just a moment, the desk behind him closer than he expected and thus not enough room to dodge, and Lestrade much too close.

Everything happened at once:

Teeth sunk deep into the meat of Sherlock's hand; once white, stained red, grinding into spears of glass.

Saliva seeped from a gaping jowl, frothing.

The gun discharged, painting grey hair.

And then silence.

Lestrade fell to the floor, but Sherlock could not bring himself to look when he heard the man's skull connect to the ground; he could not bear to see the slackened features and glazed eyes. Blood wept from the serrated skin and fell to the blur below. He removed the blue scarf from around his neck mechanically and wrapped it around the bite. Wasted time. How much time left?

Enough to get out of The Compound. More? John couldn't know. Not until he was sure. It wasn't yet dark; the rotation would be changing soon. He just needed to get out. His formula...John would need to hide it. Anderson would have to help him (God, please let the man be competent enough for this).

A chance. There was always a chance—

“Oh, God. Sherlock.”

John.

How much time?

 

**Chapter Art:**

  


by [Go-Devil-Daisuke](http://go-devil-daisuke.deviantart.com/art/Commission-MysticxMarker-2-323044478)


	8. Flatline

“Oh, God. Sherlock.”

John's gaze flickered between Sherlock and Lestrade with eyes pulled wide by disbelief and confusion. There was no time for an explanation. A half hour for the virus to invade; ten minutes for the change itself. Approximately. They needed to get outside The Compound as fast as they possibly could, and with as few witnesses as possible, should this escapade end with one less than it began.

Now what to do with the body.

Sherlock shoved the pistol and the spilled canteen from the desk into a startled John's slack hands that already held antiseptic and tweezers.

“We're taking him with us,” Sherlock declared.

John looked at him like a fish. “We're doing _what?_ ”

“Don't play stupid, John. There's no time.” The detective took his scarf from around his hand and placed it around the DI's head, creating both an unneeded blindfold as well as a much-needed covering for the gaping head wound at the back of his skull. The fresh blood was seeping though, mixing with the stains from Sherlock's own blood, but it would have to do. Sherlock frowned. He really had liked that scarf.

“Sherlock, are you going to tell me what happened?”

“No, now grab him. We're going to the wall.” John moved, too slowly, by first setting down the pistol and canteen on the lab table. “No, bring that. You might need it.”

“What for?”

“Just in case. Come _on_. We haven't got all day.” He lifted Lestrade's dead weight and hoisted him up. John shoved the contents in his hands into the pockets of his jumper, then braced his back to Sherlock, who proceeded to dump the dead man onto the soldier's shoulders. Hm. The DI's jacket had a hood. Convenient. For good measure, Sherlock tugged it over Lestrade's head. Yes, that was much better. If only he'd realized that before sacrificing his scarf.

He ignored the impulse to take back the soiled cloth.

“Jesus Christ, how did it come to this? I was only gone for ten minutes, at most.” John was panicking. They needed a strong bravado to get out without notice. This wouldn't do.  
  
“John, listen to me. I will explain everything when there's time, but for now I need you to keep your head.” Poor choice of words, he realized in hindsight when the doctor's lips thinned. “It's almost nightfall, which means the rotation will be switching any minute. We need to take the place of one of those on shift. Do you trust me?”

John laughed, and it made Sherlock's mouth taste like ash. “Trust is a funny thing, isn't it?”

“Not now. I need you to focus. I need you to _trust me._ Can you do that?”

John closed his eyes. “Yes, yes of course I can,” he said.

A sharp nod. “Good, now come with me. We'll seal off the lab, and then we'll move out.”

John did not ask why it had to be sealed.

* * *

The sun had sunk below the blackened hills, leaving the world grey as the last vestiges of light began to die. At this time of early night, no one who was not on rotation was outside of their rooms.

John looked around. “There's the two going on. So what—“ John started, interrupted by Sherlock walking straight by him, out of the darkness, behind the two men. “Sherlock, wait!”

But the detective strode on behind the two figures in complete silence, body direct with purpose. John recognized the man Sherlock was walking behind as Joseph Stanton: one of the ration moderators. Not the brightest bloke, but amiable enough. The other John didn't know by name. Small, and with wide, bright eyes. A bit flighty. They had never talked much. Sherlock was practically on their heels, now. John wanted to go after him, but kept to the shadows that concealed him. What the hell was Sherlock planning? He thought the goal of this exchange was to go _unnoticed_. Somehow, that did not look to be the conclusion of this encounter.

Especially not with the way Sherlock just drove Joseph's head into the building wall.

Sherlock immediately turned his attention to the other man, who had not even been able to recover from his shock well enough to attempt to lift his weapon. “This man had a bad fall over the uneven ground. A night's rest in his dorm and some plasters for the broken skin and he'll be fine. You will take him, and we will cover your patrol. Questions?”

The poor man looked ready to keel over into the dirt, if the contractions of his chest were any indicator.

“No, no. I-I'll just take him back now. Fo-for his fall. Um, here.” He handed Sherlock his handgun, and stumbled when he attempted to support Joseph's weight, but his fear of Sherlock must have given him a source of strength. They tottered back down the path, and John emerged from the shadows.

“Intimidation can work wonders,” John huffed. “Was that necessary?”

Sherlock smirked. “Entirely.” He held up a small, silver pocket-watch with his left hand. “Besides, I needed this. Now come along.”

* * *

The change between shifts went by effortlessly. John held back, out of sight with the body slung over his back, and watched the two leave. When they were safely out of sight, he walked forward.

“Alright, we're here. Now what?”

Sherlock leaned against the concrete wall. “Now we're here,” he said. He didn't offer up any more than that. John worried his lips but didn't press further.

“What do we do with him?” he asked, instead, shifting Lestrade's weight on his shoulders.

The detective scrunched up his face like he'd just realized the situation. Apparently he had completely forgotten the issue of the corpse being toted on John's back. “I will take him. You stay here until I come back.”

“Whoa, wait. You're not going out there by yourself, you lunatic. Not a chance.”

“Don't be difficult. I won't be but a moment.” He reached out his hand; his right hand. Even in the dimming light, John could make out the damaged skin. How long had it been like that?

“What the hell happened to your hand, Sherlock?” The doctor tried to grab his wrist, but Sherlock retracted it too quickly. Sherlock never had been a willing patient, but to not even mention the wound to his dominant hand was creating a weight in John's stomach. Why hadn't he noticed earlier? It was the same hand he'd damaged in the labs. But as far as he'd known, no one but Sherlock and Lestrade had been there since he'd left. So the wound must have been caused by them. By Lestrade. The canteen in his jacket pocket was searing his side in recognition. Lestrade must have had his canteen. Oh God, had Lestrade been drinking from it? “Sherlock, was Lestrade infect—“

“Not now, John. We don't have time. Give him to me, and we shall discuss it when I return.”

That _when_ was seeming a whole lot more like an _if_ right about now.

Not knowing what else to do (what else was there to do at this point?), John handed off Lestrade's body and watched Sherlock disappear into the trees. In his absence, John fretted. How long ago had Lestrade attacked him? The statistics were droning in his head. Just from when he had come back to find them to their current position must have taken fifteen to twenty minutes. For all he knew, Sherlock could be _turning_ at this very moment.

And that thought sent a spike of unadulterated fear through his core.

That's what was happening, wasn't it? Sherlock was going to turn into one of them. The one person that he had left was going to die. And he'd just left to go let it happen on his own.

Not bloody likely.

Blinded both by panic at what was happening as well as rage for its occurrence, John set off after him. He'd headed in the direction of the open graveyard to dispose of Lestrade's body. It was out of the way of the main gates, but not a great distance, within a tight cluster of trees: a respectable place to bury their deceased. There had been twelve pre-dug graves three weeks ago. There had been three deaths since then. Lestrade made the fourth. Sherlock, quite possibly the fifth. John ran faster.

A branch caught at John's sleeve in his haste, tearing through the fabric and nicking skin, but did nothing to lessen the relief that barraged him at the sight of Sherlock's long coat. The detective was resolutely standing before an open grave, eyes trained down to his bitten hand that held the silver pocket-watch. His other held the pistol. He didn't move as John approached him from behind. Didn't he hear his footsteps?

“Sherlock?” called John, tentatively. It was almost completely dark, now. The gate was unguarded, and that was highly dangerous. It would be all too easy for one of _them_ to get in through the darkness. They needed to get back. But first, he needed to be with Sherlock.

“Twenty-seven minutes,” he murmured. “Since initial contamination, it has been approximately twenty-seven minutes. If anything is going to happen, it is going to happen presently.” He did not look at John, only at the pocket-watch's ticking hand, barely visible in the low light.

“And you were going to leave me back there?” John demanded, hurt; he couldn't help it.

This time Sherlock spared him a sharp glance. “There was no reason for you to be out here. Lestrade is taken care of. You should be guarding the gate in case I cannot make it back to aid you.”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” John hissed. His throat was tightening around his words, making him rasp. “There was no way in hell I was going to just let you come out here to _die alone_. Why...why didn't you tell me earlier?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It would not have helped matters had you known. We needed to get Lestrade out of The Compound before he was discovered; myself, likewise. There was no way to know exactly how much time was needed before the virus would spread through my system. I could not afford for your denial to slow us down.”

John wanted to refute him, but he stopped short. Because more than anything, he wanted to deny all of it. He would lose Sherlock. And now that he knew exactly how imminent that fate was, he was paralyzed. He looked to the open grave at Sherlock's feet. “How much longer do I have with you? Have...I mean, do you...?”

The gun cocked, thunderously loud in their shared space. “I am not sure,” Sherlock said with a quiet voice. “The adrenaline might be the virus, or it may be due to my own fear. I do not know how to distinguish it.” He raised the gun, slowly. Oh god, was he going to shoot himself? Was he going to commit suicide right before John's eyes? Sherlock bowed his head, away from John's horrified face. “I did not want you here for this, John. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself on my own.”

“For God's sake, _Sherlock_ —“

“I would prefer if you were to go back. Please,” he insisted. “Thirty-two minutes.”

Thirty minutes for the invasion, ten for the turn.

John had made his decision. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Sherlock made no other attempts at persuasion. He kept staring at the watch. John did the same.

Thirty-three.

Thirty-four.

Thirty-five.

There didn't appear to be any change. Shouldn't there have been a change?

“Sherlock?”

“...perhaps...”

Thirty-nine.

Forty.

What was going on?

The watch was lowered, as well as the pistol. A hesitant smile spread the detective’s face as he turned to John. “It's confirmed, then. It truly works.”

Wait, what?

“...the cure? You mean, you took the cure before you were bitten?” And he'd _known_ this. Again, without telling John.

Sherlock nodded and exhaled loudly, pleased with himself at this turn of events.

John didn't know what to think; the emotional turmoil he'd just been subjected to not being able to find an outlet. He was confused and happy and angry and scared and relieved all at one time.

So he punched Sherlock in the face.

* * *

“Have you got everything?” Sherlock asked from his place at his desk. The radio was quiet in the room, turned low so that John could gather his wits. It had been this way for little over an hour, in which time John _properly_ cared for the bite to Sherlock's hand, as well as the spreading bruise to the side of his face. The lingering shards of glass that had been embedded in his flesh gleamed in the desk light, and the purpling skin around his left eye cast into shadow. John did not feel in the slightest bit guilty for that mark. The radio murmured softly:

 _“The virus...violent outbursts....infected subjects. Get away...”_ The radio was overtaken with static. Sherlock toyed with the dial. _“...isolate them...secure area...”_ The message did not get any clearer.

John was toying with laces of his shoe. “Should we get Anderson? He has been a part of this, after all.”  
  
Sherlock huffed, still attempting to find a stronger signal on the radio. John wanted to just turn the damn thing off. They already found a cure, hadn't they? There really wasn't a point in listening to any more archaic broadcasts. “If he wants to claim credit, then he can. We're not going to wait. The sooner we can reproduce the cure, the sooner we can distribute it.”

“Right. Good. So now, then?”

A nod. “Yes, now.”

Sherlock rose from his chair and replaced his coat from off the bed. His neck looked too bare without his scarf, John noted. Ensuring his browning was still safe in his belt, he followed the detective through the door.

Neither bothered to turn down the radio still sputtering a garbled message:

_“Please, response...survivors here...everything in our power...to be...meet...contact...oft...continue...listen...”_

The door clicked shut.

* * *

John felt a bit like the town crier at that moment. Perhaps fifty of the few hundred people within The Compound were there in the gym, shuffling about themselves. Why did it have to be him up here, again? He hated having all of this focus on him. Sherlock was watching from behind John, eyes trained on the many refugees about them. He looked just about as apprehensive as John felt, and that really wasn't very reassuring.

Someone from the group was calling him.

“John, what are we doing here? It's the middle of the night. We should all be in our dorms.”

The former soldier squared his shoulders, and then returned, “Yes, well, we have something to tell you all that couldn't wait—“

A woman from somewhere on John's right huffed. “We? For Christ's sake, don't say you've been roped into one of his mad strategies to get us all killed—“

His skin was feeling a bit too warm with his rising indignation towards those remarks. Usually, they wouldn't say something about Sherlock so directly to his face, but now was not the time to be affronted. People were starting to talk amongst themselves, already losing interest in what he had to say.

“No, look, it's got nothing to do with finding a cure. Because we've found one.”

Immediate silence.

“What?” someone questioned. “What do you mean you've _found_ a cure?”

John had to resist the urge to look back to Sherlock for camaraderie. It had to be him leading this, it had already been discussed. Only John could win their trust and cooperation in this.

“I mean exactly that: we've found the cure. A way to stop people from turning.”

Disbelief was written plain on all of their faces. Shock.

“But how?” called another. Small smiles were creeping onto some of their faces, now. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard to garner their commitment towards this effort as they had originally anticipated.

“We've been working on it since the beginning. It has taken a lot of time, but we managed. And now we just need to replicate it, and we can start to distribute it—“

A voice rose above his. “No, how, _exactly_ , did you make this cure?” It was Moriarty. The snake of a man was standing in the centre of their crowd, looking for the better part scared and sceptical. What role was he playing this time?

John fumbled. “Look, I really can't explain all of that right now. It was a long process and—“

“But in order to create a cure, you must have been _working_ with the virus, right?” Moriarty continued. John's adrenaline spiked. He now had a feeling of where the actor was going with this line of questioning. “That means you brought the virus _in here_ , right?”

Many were looking at him, aghast.

“The virus is inside?” a woman cried, shrilly. “You brought the virus inside?”

“That doesn't matter anymore!” John tried to reason. Moriarty couldn't get the upper hand in this; they were too close! “The cure—“

“How do you even know it works?” Moriarty challenged. The people around him had formed a small circle and were giving him their unwavering attention. “Have you tried it on yourself? Has Sherlock?” Many faces turned stony at his name. Not good. “For all we know, we could infect ourselves with _your cure._ ”

“We have tested it!” John retorted, desperately. “We know it works, which is why we need to administer it as soon as possible!”

“So you've infected yourselves?” Moriarty blanched, completely convincingly. But his eyes shone with delight that made John's blood run cold. “And you stayed in The Compound, around all of us that are not cured. It's not even just that you brought the virus inside, but you deliberately didn't tell us; just going on as if nothing had happened? What would you do if you infected someone? You're our doctor! _We trusted you!_ ” he cried.

 _Trust is power_ , Moriarty had told him. _It's an advantage, and who wouldn't use that for their benefit? I know I would._

They were trusting Moriarty. They weren't trusting John.

And it was all spiralling out of control too quickly for him to set straight.

People were turning away from his side with hurt and betrayal on their faces. And that pain was transforming into anger.

“You'd kill us all!” someone postulated. Another howled, “We thought you a good man, John. How could you?”

“Wait!” he roared. Sherlock stopped him by tugging on his shoulder. “What?” he seethed.

He was watching the way so many eyes were on them both, but his voice too quiet for them to hear. “They're afraid,” he said, lowly. “They're afraid, and they're not listening to you. We're becoming the enemy. We need to make them understand.”

Like John hadn't already figured that out on his own, thanks.

“Throw them out,” Moriarty said, suddenly, looking beseechingly at his converts. “They can't be allowed to stay here. If they stay, they'll ruin everything. Everything that we've worked to keep. We can't let that happen.”

John's eyes went wide. God, no. They wouldn't, would they? After all that he'd done?

Some looked uncertain. “But John has helped us so much—“

“Helped you?” Moriarty snorted. “By lying to your face and patching your scrapes? He's not on our side; he's on Sherlock's. Because face it: none of you are worth more to him that Sherlock's word. You put your stock in a man who would let you become a psychopath's lab rat.”

John flinched.

“Would you, John?” was the demand. His jaw worked, but no sounds came out. “Do we really mean so little to you?”

“Of course he would,” Moriarty sneered. “You already did, didn't you, John? You let Sherlock _experiment_ on a human being, and not just yourself, but one of us.” He was talking about Anderson. How had he known about that? “And you would do it again! You cannot stay here—you'll be the death of us all. You're too dangerous together.”

There were nods, and John's body went rigid. Sherlock pressed closer to his back. “ _John_ ,” he urged. “We need to get out of here.”

A man advanced on Sherlock, and John instinctively put his body in between them with a clear 'stay the fuck away' message seeping out of every pore. His hand twitched for the Browning in his trousers.

“Don't make this more difficult than it has to be,” said the man reasonably, as if their convoluted logic was perfectly sane. “We have to protect ourselves. I know you understand that.”

John gripped Sherlock's hand tightly. Yes, he understood that perfectly well. And they would only have one shot at this. He looked into Sherlock's bright eyes and knew that the detective had met the same conclusion that he had. The detective squeezed his hand back. “I understand. I do,” he said, loud and clear. More refugees began to draw closer. Moriarty's mouth turned up with unbidden glee.

They bolted for the door.

* * *

They didn't stop until they were well outside The Compound's walls. The guard didn't even try to stop them; too dumbfounded to react as they went barrelling past. Some people had stupidly attempted to keep after them all the way up until that point. It was dark, and they had no light to see, but they kept running. No one dared to follow them any further into the thick of trees. After what seemed to be hours, they stopped.

Their sharp, ragged pants were too loud in the still quiet, and John's heart felt lodged somewhere in his throat. He looked back into the nothingness they came from, imagining he could see The Compound. Perhaps it was better for him that he couldn't. There would be no point in going back there, anymore. It was just the two of them. Once again. Alone.

He didn't give himself time to dwell on that solitary word.

At least they had each other. They could survive this, as they had all the rest, so long as that fact remained true.

* * *

Being clever did not make one an engineer by application. Wit does not connect severed cables, or rewire currents. And wishful thinking did not help accomplish tasks any faster than a realistic approach, but right about now Mycroft Holmes was hoping for a miracle. He was wishing learning how to configure an old radio had been practical knowledge when he'd had the opportunity to learn it. They had been making decent progress up until a week ago, before the scout that had been doing the repairs did not return from his mission. After the second night fell and he had not returned, the idea that he might had faded. No one who didn't return by the second day ever came back.

Which left Mycroft to continue making the repairs on the radio.

The others here did not know of their attempt to fix the broken machine. They had convinced themselves that they were the only remaining survivors in this area, and even if there were others, they would not be willing to compromise their limited rations. Self-preservation. It was logical, but if things kept the way they were, there would not be enough of them left to consume what little stores they had. He refused to die in such a pitiful way.

The main problem with the device was the damaged and mangled circuitry.

It should not have been such an impasse, but their lack of salvageable wiring in their present location had delayed them significantly. Mycroft took what he could, and what would not be missed, but without the expertise of the other man, it was still rather ambitious.

His fingertips were blackened in spots from burns, and he hissed as another was added to the martyred display. He looked at them distastefully. Not for the first time, he begrudged the fact that he was doing the dirty work he had so abhorred. But it couldn't be helped. He bent back at his task.

_Krrrrrrrzzzzzzt!_

Mycroft was so started by the sudden noise that the wire slipped from his hand, and the radio fell back into its silent death. What had he done? He grappled for the wire again, and slid the frayed end along the exposed circuitry. The radio's face glowed with pale light.

_Krrrrrrrrrsssszzzzzzt!_

He'd done it. Finally! He affixed the wire as best he could and immediately attached the microphone. There was no telling how much time he would have before the battery died or another problem occurred. Or before one of the others heard the noise and came to see what was going on. He needed to get his message out before that happened.

_“Hello, hello. This transmission is being broadcast to any and all able to hear. Please, response by those able to do so is of highest priority. There are survivors here. We are doing everything in our power, at present, to be a safe haven to any that can meet our location. Contact Mycroft Holmes at this frequency at any hour. Broadcasts will continue from here on, for any able to listen.”_

Mycroft lowered the receiver. Who was out there left to listen? The government had failed; human kind had failed. What was left of the uninfected had turned on each other. Surviving by sacrificing. There were so very few left. And those who managed to hold on, were they worth saving? The violent and dangerous. The survivors. But he had made it, hadn't he? No, there had to be someone out there worth reaching.

“ _We will survive,_ ” he said to himself, and to the ghost of a survivor he was not sure existed.

Wishful thinking.

 

**Chapter Art:**

[by KotoriK](http://kotorik.deviantart.com/art/Commissionsherlock-358962011)

[by bottlebee](http://bottlebee.tumblr.com/post/76415182075/a-board-for-garrulousgibberishs-fantastic-zombie)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has stuck this story out with me this far. You've just completed Arc I, with a few one-shots and then Arc II to follow. I sincerely hope that if you followed along with me this far that I'll see you in the next part. :) In the meantime, here's some links to any of the story-related postings. The most frequently updated is the tumblr link!
> 
> Tumblr: http://garrulousgibberish.tumblr.com/tagged/rats+in+the+system  
> deviantART: http://mysticxmarker.deviantart.com/gallery/39362351  
> Fanfiction: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7764124/1/Rats-in-the-System
> 
> Your support to me is unparalleled. Thank you guys so, so much! And I'm so very happy that I've found a way to add the wonderful artwork into the story, as well, so that you all can enjoy it!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Rats in the System Series by GarrulousGibberish](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1565321) by [Cee5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cee5/pseuds/Cee5)




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